A Brother's Sacrifice
by ayosb2000
Summary: Completely AU. John really did want Dean to have a home and for Sam to go to school. At Sonny's, Dean saw the possibility of another life, but chose family. Sam is chafing under his father's thumb. An exploration of what might have happened if Dean stood up to his father and decided that normal and hunting could co-exist. A large re-write of a previous story I wrote years ago.
1. May 2000

A/N This story is written at a slow pace. It will span several years and is a character study, focused on the relationship between the brothers and, occasionally, their father. Taking place AU if they had made decisions that they all talk about wanting in canon. It is not hunt/supernatural heavy, so don't expect a lot of that.

Also, I'm sure I will be writing some mature/objectionable content. I don't write Wincest, but assume everything else is fair game. This is the only warning I will give.

/

There was country music playing on the jukebox, which was no big surprise because Sam had ventured to look at the selections once and knew that an entire catalog of country music artists were the only selections on offer. That was fine with him since he never really cared what was playing in the background while he was reading. He had learned the art of tuning out music and any other distracting noises a long time ago from riding hostage in the back seat of the Impala his entire life, and having Dean the human tornado as a brother.

As long as he had a book in front of him, he could lose himself in the story and shut out his surroundings.

That particular talent had gotten him into trouble with his father on more than one occasion because Sam was suppose to _always_ be aware of his immediate environment and, sure, he could be plucked out of whatever literary world he was currently immersed in out of reflex, if the situation called for it, but he would rather not be bothered on the whole.

Not that any of that really mattered at the moment.

Firmly parked at his corner table, surrounded on two sides by thick wooden walls, and heavily guarded by the eagle eyes of his bar tending brother less than thirty feet in front of him, Sam didn't need to worry about his safety.

Not because of his own relatively mature age of one day shy of seventeen, or his over six feet of height which was just about to overtake his big brother's stature, and rapidly staging a coup over their father's as well, or his buck seventy five of lean muscle. It wasn't even because of the fact that he was deadly proficient with just about any weapon made, or that he knew how to incapacitate someone a dozen different ways just using his bare hands.

No.

It was because he had a deadlier and overprotective brother would cheerfully and creatively slaughter anyone that dared come near him in even the tiniest of aggressive manners. Who needed self defense skills when you had Dean Winchester as your personal bodyguard?

They were currently finishing week number three in southern Oklahoma, brought here originally by a hunt for a Spring-heeled Jack that Dad and Dean had disposed of within the first week. The plan had been to leave again soon after, but then their father had been mysteriously contacted by a psychic friend out of the blue and, without explanation, John had taken off like a rocket in the middle of the night for Salt Lake City, leaving the boys behind.

That was perfectly okay with Sam. His present high school was the eleventh one he had been enrolled in since September. Not as many as some years, and less than others, but the school year was drawing to a close in a few weeks, and he didn't relish the idea of pulling up stakes again and getting dropped into another cauldron of cliques and classrooms before the end of the term.

Their home of the moment was the Hi-View Motel. An old but relatively well maintained strip of rooms off the highway, with an attached bar and grill and even an outdoor pool that had seen better days but was still serviceable for the hot sunny weather of the approaching Oklahoma summer.

The owner, Randy Somers, was a widower who had built the motel and bar in the early sixties with his late wife Daphne at a time when roadside travel was a little fancier than it was these days. A nice older gentleman, lonely since the death of his wife, he kept the place out of nostalgia and not real financial need, so the prices were good and the linens were always clean. The lingering pride of better days kept Randy busy with repairs of aging fixtures, and the housekeeping was thorough because Randy was fond of telling anyone that would listen that Daphne was watching over the place, and she would come back and haunt him if he let it fall into ruin.

Hearing that, Sam was hoping that she actually wasn't, because he didn't look forward to having to salt and burn the bones of the beloved wife of the nice guy that was renting to them.

Randy had taken a shine to the Winchester brothers almost immediately. Maybe because his own two sons lived far away, too busy with their own lives to pay much attention to their father who refused to relocate closer to them. Not actually live _with_ one of them, mind you, Randy had confided to Sam one day over a pitcher of real lemonade. They wanted him close but in a nursing home, to assuage whatever guilt they may have felt for being absent sons to the father that had always provided well for them.

The Hi-View had been the first of the Somers family investments, including some profitable oil interests that kept them more than comfortable. So there was money backing up the motel and grill, evident in the quality of food that was served, lovingly prepared by a round middle aged woman who called herself Chef Emily, and the meticulous care that was taken with the entire establishment.

Randy and Dean had bonded over the love of classic cars, and Dean, now actually being legal at the age of twenty-one and naturally charismatic, had immediately been offered a job tending the lively bar that still got a lot of traffic from the interstate, even though the motel itself was usually only half full at any given time.

With his generous employee discount, Dean fed Sam a good dinner in the grill every night, which was a nice change from their usual fast food take out or warmed up canned goods, and he also got a discount on the weekly room rent, so it was better than their average set up.

Dean's base pay as a bartender wasn't exactly a pro ball career, but the tips were crazy good because Sam's big brother had ladies lining up to vie for his attention. As a plus, Randy, with fond memories of his own youth before finding the love of his life, indulgently looked the other way when Dean or the other bartender JP sneaked the occasional love struck lady into an empty unit for a little fun.

So this is where Sam found himself every evening from the start of Dean's shift at five until the kitchen closed at ten, when he would be summarily booted back to their room before the rougher clientele made their nightly appearance for pool, darts and booze. Dean would tend bar until two, making it back to the room any time between three and five a.m. depending on his extracurricular activities, but always up and ready to drive Sam to school in the morning.

As Sam was sitting with a copy of The Silmarillion open in front of him, Cassidy, the twenty-two year old smoking hot blonde waitress, put a platter of grilled chicken, french fries and broccoli in front of him, refilling his lemonade glass from the pitcher she carried in her other hand.

Sam liked Cassidy. A lot, actually.

She was beautiful, friendly and chatty, routinely lavishing Sam with lots of flirty fun attention. Sam enjoyed it, but he was smart enough to know that her friendliness towards him stemmed from her not quite so secret desire to be the next girl that Dean took to an empty unit, and not any real interest in an awkward kid brother.

He did feel bad for her for harboring a crush that he knew would not be returned, sorely tempted to tell her that his brother would never mess around with a co-worker, but he kept his mouth shut. Dean had to work here, and it wasn't Sam's place to cause a problem where they both had it pretty good.

She gave him a pretty smile as she walked away, and his young hormonal eyes followed her pert behind sashaying back to the bar where her obvious attraction for his big brother was on display for everyone to see. Dean knew, of course, but he liked her as well, as a friend, and Sam acknowledged that his brother was trying very hard to be nice to her without encouraging anything further.

It was still early evening, the tables mostly empty, so Dean left the bar in JP's hands and strolled over to check on Sam, sliding into the vacant seat across from him at the table.

"Everything okay, Sammy?" he asked. "Enough rabbit food for you?"

"It'd be better with a beer," Sam responded hopefully, eyes dancing. "I have ID."

"Oh, I know," Dean snorted and raised an eyebrow, giving him an indulgent glare. "I made it for you. You're still not getting one."

Sam smirked and shrugged, not having really expected a different answer, and took a bite of his chicken. "Worth a shot, right?"

Dean grinned for a second, but then a frown creased his eyebrows as he pulled out his phone.

"Dad called today," he said hesitantly. "He's following up some lead that Fred gave him out to Cali, so he might not be back for a while."

Logically, Sam knew that this information was supposed to upset him, because tomorrow was his birthday and you were supposed to want your father to be with you on your birthday. Sadly, their father had missed several birthdays and other holidays over the years, and a result of that was the uncomfortable truth that his absence wasn't felt as keenly as it once had been by his youngest son.

On one level Sam was even secretly pleased, only because it might mean that they could stay where they were a while longer, hopefully until the end of the school year, but he knew he couldn't say these things to his brother. Dean wanted their father with them as much as possible, and he didn't take kindly to Sam suggesting otherwise.

"That's okay," he replied, shrugging again. "As long as he eventually makes it back in one piece."

If Dean was surprised by his reaction, he didn't show it, and since Sam wasn't pitching a fit and making pointed remarks about absentee fathers, the older brother was going to take the win where he could get it. Sometimes it was just better to keep John and Sam apart, and that thought broke Dean's heart a little.

"I think Cassidy is going to make another play for you," Sam said, changing the subject to something less controversial.

Dean let out of heavy sigh and rolled his eyes. "Yeah. It's getting awkward. She's a nice girl, but..."

"I know," Sam said, pushing his shoulders back and wagging his finger, a perfect impression of their father. "You don't shit where you eat, Son!"

Dean smiled, but was quietly a little taken aback. The older Sam grew, the more he looked and sounded, and sometimes acted, like their father, which was not always a good thing. He had long surmised that their many similarities were a contributing factor in their near constant war with each other, like two identical magnets forever repelling.

In the few minutes that Dean sat with him, Sam had hoovered through almost the entire dinner platter, and the older brother recognized the telltale signs of another growth spurt on the way. Sammy was already at eye level with him as it was, so as far as Dean was concerned it was just going to suck out loud when his little brother started to tower over him.

Cassidy, having kept a close eye on the brothers, noticed the empty plate as well, taking advantage of Dean's presence at the table to shoot over and offer Sam dessert, which he declined, and refill his lemonade, which he accepted. She threw Dean her prettiest smile, "accidentally" brushing his hand with hers as she took Sam's plate away. The boys watched her head back to the kitchen, hips swaying in her short skirt, and once again Dean regretted his no co-worker policy.

His break over, Dean threw a five on the table for Cassidy's tip and stood up to leave.

"I have plans for tonight," he informed Sam, wagging his eyebrows and grinning. "So don't wait up."

Sam rolled his eyes, because he expected no less, before Dean's face became the serious big brother face.

"Really, Sammy," he said, a little more firmly. "It's school night, so don't wait up. Hit the rack by midnight, Cinderfella."

"Okay, _Mom_ ," Sam sighed irritably, annoyed by his brother's bossiness. It's not like Sam stayed up all night anyway. Dean didn't need to tell him to go to bed like a good little boy, and yet he still felt the need to do so every night.

With the table to himself again, he buried himself back into his book, losing himself in a world of fantasy that took the edge off of the harsh reality that his family actually lived in. So engrossed was he that time slipped away completely without his knowledge, and it wasn't until he heard a sharp whistle that his subconscious recognized as his brother's way of getting his attention that he poked his head back up for air.

Dean was behind the bar, a full throng of customers jostling for service. The surrounding tables were packed, the air dense with cigarette smoke and the music livelier than earlier. His brother shot him an annoyed glare, pointing to his watch and then to the door. Surprised, Sam sat up straighter in the hard backed chair and glanced at his own watch that told him that it was a quarter past ten.

Slightly disoriented by the missing hours, he grabbed his book and his phone and headed towards the door. As he passed the bar, Dean pointed to his watch again and then mouthed _midnight_ at him, and Sam scowled at the unnecessary reminder, flipping off his pushy sibling as he headed out. It never ceased to annoy him that his brother, who had always had his own set of rules growing up, could be such a jerk about telling Sam what to do.

Their room was only a few doors down from the grill, so it barely took him a minute to reach it, unlocking the door, and then immediately locking it behind him from habit. The same habit had him redoing the salt line that was required when their father was away. It rankled Sam sometimes, to have these things so deeply ingrained in him that he did them without even thinking about it.

Not for the first time, he lamented the fact that their lives were so jacked by their unorthodox upbringing. No wonder he always got labeled as a freak at his ever changing schools.

Scowling, he thew his book on the small kitchenette table next to the textbooks and notes that lay sprawled across the whole surface. He didn't have any more homework to do because, as usual, Dean had made him finish it before heading over to the grill. Sam was routinely irked that his less than studious brother had always mandated that Sam complete his homework directly after school.

Not that Sam wouldn't have done it anyways, because he enjoyed the work usually, and it beat the crap out of researching for his dad in any case. It was just because Dean never really took any interest in his own education, even though Sam knew that his brother was more than capable of making good grades if he made the slightest of efforts.

Dean was smart, probably smarter than Sam was himself, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that about himself or his big brother. But Dean had embraced the hunting life a long time ago, and he had never shown any interest in pursuing anything beyond that, actually getting hostile on the few occasions that Sam had tried to suggest otherwise.

So, yeah. Sam had to study because big brother said so, and when Dad wasn't around he had to obey Dean, but he had never really been sure why his brother took such pains with Sam's schooling when it had been made more than clear on several occasions that Sam was expected to follow in the family business.

On top of the school work, both boys had a rigorous schedule of PT and weapons training regardless of where they were. It was with these that Sam regularly gave his brother attitude, grabbing at any excuse to avoid the activities that he despised, regardless of the orders their father left them with during his frequent absences.

To be fair, it wasn't often that Dean would rat Sam out on his less than willing participation when Dad returned and demanded the usual report. Sam was actually pretty grateful for the fact that his big brother kept his confidence most of the time, only alerting Dad when it was impossible for him to not find something out by other means.

Shamefully, Sam knew that he often took advantage of the fact that his brother, while expected to carry out their father's orders, was not permitted to punish Sam for disobeying them. He routinely gave Dean a ton of grief when his brother was just trying to carry out their father's wishes, and still Dean covered his ass when Dad got home unless Sam had done something that might have endangered himself. Sam and his father fought nearly constantly anyway, and any lessening of tension was appreciated by all three members of their small family.

Dad didn't care about excellence in Sam's school work either, concerned only that he did well enough to make sure that he stayed below the radar of overzealous teachers, counselors and CPS. Which is how Dean had managed to drop out and get his GED instead of his diploma.

The almost four weeks the brothers had attended Truman High had been uncomfortable and life altering for both Sam and his brother. It was right after their month there that Dean had informed their father that he was leaving high school altogether, tired of the hassle of it all, and Sam was still pissed to this day that Dad had allowed it. Realistically he knew that their father couldn't stop him, since Dean was already eighteen and legally old enough to do as he pleased, but Dad could have made more of an effort to stop him in Sam's opinion.

Their father was relentless on issuing orders about every aspect of their lives, and Dean _always_ obeyed them with a ' _sir, yes, sir_ ', so if John had told his eldest to get his ass into the next school, Dean would have done so immediately and probably graduated. The fact that their father let it go was one of the things that had made Sam the most angry with him out of all of their fights so far, because his brother could have been anything he wanted to be if given a little freedom and encouragement.

Which is probably why he himself wound up giving more than passing thought to Mr. Wyatt's remark about the four or five decisions that everyone should make for themselves. Watching their father casually dismiss the future of his intelligent brother, Sam was determined that doing something else with his life besides hunting was going to be one of those decisions he would make.

He was hungry again, like he seemed to be all the time lately, so he searched the fairly well stocked cabinet where Dean kept their snacks, grabbing a bag of jerky and then a bottle of water from the fridge. His eyes were tired from reading the small print of his paperback book, so he decided to flop down on his impeccably made bed with the sharp military corners that his father insisted on, and watch some crap cable.

John Winchester liked order, because disorganization could cost lives, and while both his boys could occasionally be messy with their various motel rooms in their father's absence, they usually tried to keep things tidy. You never knew when Dad was coming home and there would be hell to pay if things weren't shipshape. A messier than usual room, coupled with Sam's smart mouth talking back to their father, had once earned both boys a session of making and unmaking their beds fifty times while Dad stood at attention overseeing them. Something neither of them ever wanted to repeat.

Lazily, he flipped through the channels, looking for anything remotely interesting while he munched on the jerky, finally pausing on the History channel where a documentary on Julius Cesar was playing. Sam liked history. It was the one thing that made the research he did for his father's hunt even barely tolerable, and the study of ancient civilizations was better still. He liked the structure and the basis of the justice system and, not for the first time, he contemplated a career in law. His own family broke so many laws on a regular basis that he though that, maybe, he could balance the scales by defending some.

The noise from the grill was getting louder, so Sam finally had to turn the volume up to drown it out. He didn't care for the bar scene, unlike his father and brother who both seemed to fit right in with it. There had to be more to life than cheap laughs, cheaper women and cirrhosis, in his opinion. He wanted a real house to come home to every day, and the same girl to come home to. Not the endless parade of faceless barflies that kept his brother entertained as they wandered from town to town.

When the clock was creeping towards midnight, he switched off the TV and headed into the bathroom to brush his teeth and change for bed. The noise from the grill was now at full volume, and as he pulled back the covers from his bed he was once again grateful for the Walkman and headphones that Dean had given him a few months ago. At least he could drown out the noise with music of his own choosing and try to get some sleep.

Slipping under the blanket, he flopped over on his stomach to get comfortable, wrapping his arms around his pillow, his hands within reach of the butterfly knife that he kept underneath. Tired, he closed his eyes and began to drift off, happy to let sleep pull him under. A few minutes later, he was almost completely conked out when he felt his blankets being yanked off of him and someone smacking him hard on the ass.

Whipping around, knife in his right hand and swinging, Sam blinked his eyes open, ready to fight whoever it was that had broken into their room. As the rush of adrenaline pulsed through his veins, he caught the mischievous grin on his brother's face as Dean jumped back out of the range of Sam's knife, with approval in his eyes.

"Nice reflexes, Sammy!" Dean commented, laughing as he flopped down on the end of Sam's bed.

Sam sat up against the headboard, still getting his bearings back as he fully woke up, mumbling an impressive string of profanity because his brother could be such a jerk sometimes.

"What the hell, Dean," he snapped, closing the knife and returning it to its usual place. "I could have hurt you, idiot."

"In your dreams, geek boy," Dean replied, still laughing as he got up and headed over to the closet and pulled out his duffel. He threw it on his own bed and opened the drawer next to the sink, pulling out a tiny colorful box before sitting down on his bed and rummaging through his bag.

Sam rubbed his eyes irritably, resisting the urge to punch his brother for smacking him like that and waking him up after being such a dick about telling him to be in bed.

"What are you doing here, anyway," he asked, annoyed and tired. "Don't you have two more hours on your shift?"

Dean turned around, mischief dancing in his eyes, as he held out a little chocolate swiss roll with a single candle already burning in the middle.

"Did you think I forgot?" he asked, feigning a hurt expression. "It's not every day that your little brother turns seventeen, Sammy."

Sam tried hard to maintain his affronted glare, but felt it slipping as soon as he saw the cake. The Little Debbie Swiss Roll had become a fixture for birthdays for the Winchester brothers who rarely ever had a real birthday cake to celebrate with. Money had always been tight when they were little, and even now, with Dean more than helping with expenses that made their financial situation significantly more comfortable where a real cake could be purchased, they still held on to the traditional of the little chocolate treat.

"Make a wish, kiddo," Dean said, passing the roll over to Sam who immediately reached for it. "And make it count."

Sam grinned at him, a full smile that showed all the dimples. He hesitated for the briefest of seconds before blowing out the lone candle, plucking it out and breaking the cake in half to share with his brother.

With a mouth full of chocolate, Sam tucked his legs underneath him and leaned back against the wall the bed abutted.

"You could have just woken me up, you know," he muttered grumpily, even as his dimples were still peeking out. He sighed happily, sucking some of the cream filling from the middle. "You didn't have to smack me like that, you freak."

Dean snorted as he licked chocolate from his thumb. "Hey, everyone gets a birthday spanking," he replied, cocking an eyebrow threateningly at his little brother. "One smack down, sixteen more to go."

Now Sam did glare at him, pointing a finger still smeared with chocolate that made the gesture a little less menacing.

"Try it and I'll break your hand, jerk."

Dean laughed softly at the look of fury of his little brother's face that was so fierce that it looped back around to cute. Sam may be seventeen now, but he still looked ten years old sometimes.

"Easy, tiger," he soothed, holding up a hand in defeat. He rummaged through his bag again and pulled out a small wrapped package that he tossed to the kid who caught it easily.

"Happy Birthday, little brother," he seriously, wishing Sam had more of a celebration in store for him that the small gestures he could make.

Sam grinned again before tearing off the paper, drawing in a sharp breath when he uncovered the pricey scientific calculator he had been coveting for a while.

"Dean," he whispered, awestruck by the gift. "We can't afford this."

"Pffft," Dean huffed, shrugging with an affronted scowl on his face. "Don't tell me what I can afford, Sammy. We're doing just fine. You wanted it, and you deserve it. That's all you need to know."

Sam held the package for another quick second and then dropped it on the bed, standing up and grabbing his brother around the neck for a quick hug. Dean rolled his eyes, but he wrapped his arms around the kid and hugged him back because, _s_ _eriously_ , Sammy could be such an emo little bitch sometimes.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, patting Sam's back gently before slowly pushing the kid away, the embrace becoming uncomfortable for him.

Sam smiled, knowing how much his brother outwardly protested against chick flick moments, when really he was all about them. Dean could fool just about everyone else, including their father sometimes, but he couldn't fool his kid brother. He returned to his own bed and immediately began picking open the plastic packaging around the calculator.

"What are you doing here so early, anyways," he asked, jerking his chin over to the clock radio on the nightstand that showed that it was only a little past twelve thirty.

Dean flopped down on his bed and kicked off his boots as he stretched out and yawned.

"I'm done for the night," he answered matter-of-fact, taking off his watch and flinging it onto the nightstand.

Sam paused in his calculator extraction to throw his brother a scowl. "Why?"

Dean snorted and sat back up to remove his socks and outer shirt. "Why? Because it's my pain in the ass little brother's birthday as of midnight. I thought I might actually spend it with him."

"Oh," Sam replied quietly, the thought surprisingly more pleasing than he would have admitted openly.

"Oh," Dean parroted back, his mouth twisting up in a little smirk. He watched Sam struggle needlessly for a minute with the package before shaking his head and offering his own knife.

"I would have been here earlier," he began explaining, as his kid brother finally succeeded in freeing his gift, "but I wasn't sure JP could handle things on his own. I was hoping to catch you before you fell asleep, actually."

Sam nodded absently as he began to pour over the folded white sheets of instructions and Dean stood up and sauntered over to the fridge and grabbed a beer.

"So what did you wish for?" he asked as he took a swig and wiped his mouth with his hand.

"If I tell you, it won't come true," Sam answered petulantly, never raising his head from his paperwork, but a snarky dimpled smile peeking out.

"Yeah, ok, Pinocchio," Dean laughed as he downed the rest of the bottle. "Tomorrow you'll wake up and be a real live boy, don't worry."

He ignored Sam flipping him off again and headed into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. He could use a shower to get the pervasive stench of cigarette smoke out of his skin, but he was just too tired right now. With the running around to shop for the calculator, he hadn't been able to get his usual nap in before the start of his shift. Making his way back out to the main room, he stripped to his boxers and then slipped on a clean T-shirt before pulling back his blanket and top sheet and crawling into bed.

"That can wait until morning, Sammy," he said with a little firmness in his voice. "Go brush your teeth and get back into bed and I'll let you play hooky tomorrow."

"I already brushed my teeth," Sam replied absently, as he scrolled through the functions. "And why would I play hooky?"

"And you just ate chocolate," his brother reminded him pointedly, too tired to spar with Sam. "I'm not going to pay for some dentist's new Mercedes because you need fillings. Go brush again."

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed, but he put down the calculator and slid off of his bed, obediently heading into the bathroom to give his teeth a second pass.

"You're bossy, do you know that?" he snapped at his brother when he exited the bathroom and got back into his own bed.

"Yeah, I'm awesome," Dean replied easily, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes already closed. "I thought you might want to go to that museum you keep bugging me about, and maybe see a matinee of Gladiator. I have tomorrow off."

"Seriously?" Sam asked, eyes wide with shock. You usually couldn't get his brother near a museum unless something needed to be killed in it.

"Yes, seriously," Dean affirmed, rolling over and dragging his blanket up to his neck. "Now shut up and go to sleep before I change my mind."

Not wanting to risk it, Sam decided he should just shut up and go to sleep.

/

They both slept in late the next morning, each taking a long lazy shower that they usually didn't have enough time or hot water for, which was a nice benefit to waiting past check out time for most nightly guests. To Sam's surprise, Dean passed on the standard drive thru that provided them their breakfast on the way to Sam's school most mornings, choosing to pull into the parking lot of a nice diner instead where Sam was able to order an enormous portion of his favorite pancakes and a bowl of fresh fruit salad that didn't come served in a bag and handed through a window.

After breakfast, Sam was allowed to leisurely stroll through the museum he had been going on and on about since they had arrived in the area. Dean kept his mouth shut, refraining from making any wise cracks that would spoil his little brother's geek time as he followed the kid from exhibit to exhibit. Sam was bubbling and enthusiastic as a puppy, and Dean swore that he could practically see a tail wagging, afterwards insisting that his brother pick out a few souvenirs from the gift shop.

Lunch consisted of nachos, a large bucket of popcorn with extra butter, peanut M&Ms and Gummy Bears that they hoovered through while Russell Crowe slashed and bashed his way across the screen. The hours of solid action had Dean jonesing to punch something, but he settled for making some mental notes to add to their training regimen. Once the movie was over, Sam pressed his birthday luck and cajoled his brother into letting him drive.

The Impala had only been Dean's car since his twenty-first birthday in January, so it was a tough sell to hand the keys over to his little brother. But those damned puppy dog eyes were lethal, and logically he knew that the kid was a fairly skilled driver, trained under the same tutelage as Dean had been himself, so he clenched his teeth and passed them over, promising a world of hurt for the tiniest of scratches.

They spent the rest of the afternoon cruising around to nowhere in particular, Sam perfectly capable at the wheel, which didn't mean that his brother wasn't white knuckling it in the passenger seat since he started the engine. By the time that they had driven by an Indian restaurant that Sam begged to try for dinner, Dean would have promised the kid anything, up to and including eating curry whatever, to get him to pull over, so Sam carefully signaled and easily swung into the parking lot.

The _Maharajah Palace_ was cheesy enough looking, in Dean's opinion, painted gaudy colors and sporting a small onion shaped dome on the top, but Baby was parked and the keys were back in his pocket, so he shut his mouth and followed Sam inside. Through the door they were assaulted with a wave of spices in the air, not altogether unpleasant, with the strains of a weird sounding guitar and a woman with a high warbling voice playing in the background.

A pretty young lady in a brightly colored dress with a long black braid down her back handed them menus which Dean just shoved back at Sam, telling him to order whatever he wanted for the both of them, while he took out his phone and checked messages. Sam carefully perused and was well prepared when she returned, grinning from ear to ear as he placed their order.

His big brother didn't really care what they wound up eating, he was just enjoying the smile on the kid's face, one that didn't make too many appearances these days. All too often, when Sam wasn't carping on and on about their frequent moves, he was either brooding or had his nose stuck in a book, and there were blocks of days in a row where Dean really missed just having fun hanging out with his kid brother. With their lives as they were, he wasn't ashamed to admit that Sam was his best friend. The only friend Dean had ever needed really.

Since he left school, work was a necessity for him, because their dad already had his hands full with his search for their mother's killer and all of the other hunts he took on to spare other families from the devastation of their own, and Dean was happy to pitch in. His various jobs, sometimes actually legal ones, provided food and shelter for himself and his brother, as well as the little things that Sam needed, and occasionally just wanted, like money for school trips, special books and social outings.

Dean was making out okay at the Hi-View, with the only drawback being his hours that kept him apart from his brother in the evenings when Sam was home from school. With their father's mandated training schedule, and the time they spent helping him research on the weekends, it didn't leave a lot of frivolous brother time.

It's not that Dean wasn't proud of Sam's impressive grades, earned under pretty stressful situations with their constant travel.

He was _damn_ proud of the kid.

But secretly, he was ready for his brother to graduate already, so they could all travel together all the time, keeping the family business of hunting things and saving people, without the near constant worry about not being there to watch his father's back.

Dean was only one person, after all, with loyalties torn between the two most important people in his life. John Winchester was one of the best hunters in the game. Everyone knew that. But he was still just a man, and men make mistakes no matter how good they are. Truthfully, Dean wasn't sure how he would survive if his father was hunting alone one day and something got him before he got it because Dean was in a motel somewhere with his thumbs up his ass while Sammy was going to high school.

They had left Sam alone on several occasions, but never really for very long periods of time, or longer than a few hours drive from where they were hunting. The kid was strong, well trained and he was definitely old enough to watch out for himself. But there was a clear and present fear in their father's eyes as to the safety of his youngest son, one that he had never really displayed regarding his eldest, and that was fine, as far as Dean was concerned, because it had always been his job to watch out for Sammy, and it was a responsibility he took very seriously.

The pretty waitress brought over two steaming cups of something that looked like milky coffee and Dean almost sent it back because he drank his coffee black like a man should. Only princesses like his little brother drank creamy, swirly, fancy pants coffee drinks, thank you very much. But Sam was giving him _that look_ , so he sighed in resignation and picked the cup up, sniffing suspiciously at it, and immediately having his nostrils assaulted with a heavy waft of spice that tickled his nose hairs.

"Will you just try it already," Sam huffed, as he took a sip from his own cup. "It's Spice Tea. You'll like it."

Dean leaned away from the cup, a look of revulsion on his face. "Tea? Do I look British to you?"

And there were the puppy eyes again, and if Sam didn't stop it immediately, Dean was going to start making him wear sunglasses full time because it was unfair for him to have that kind of advantage over his older, bigger, smarter and better looking brother.

To make his little brother happy, Dean took a tentative sip, feeling the unfamiliar flavors on his taste buds and finding himself surprised that they weren't unpleasant. A bigger swallow a moment later, and he had to admit that the tea was okay. Of course he would never admit to drinking it to anyone. _Ever_. But he would enjoy it right now because he was already paying for it, and they were raised to not waste their food.

Yep. That was it.

The song changed, and now it was a man with a high warbling voice with heavy percussion providing the background as the waitress placed a large appetizer plate of... _something or another_...in front of them. Dean scanned the plate and saw what looked like large flat tortilla chips with seeds, some triangular deep fried things, chunks of reddish meaty _chunks_ , long strips of _something-something_ and meatball- _ish_ things, with cups of God knows what kind of dipping sauce type stuff in them.

He restrained the urge to pull out his flask of holy water and sprinkle the entire plate with it, just to be on the safe side, but the hopeful expression on Sam's face, and the need to look brave in front of the kid won out. He took his fork and stabbed the nearest thing and popped it in his mouth.

And you know what? It didn't suck.

Their junk food lunch had kicked up an appetite, and they had just about inhaled the entire plateful when Sam's phone started to ring. Dean frowned at the intrusion because their dad hated it when they tried to take calls during meals, and both brothers at one point or another had their phones taken from them for failing to put them on silent during the rare occasion that the family ate out together.

Sam pulled the phone out of his pocket and his eyes got that tight look in them when he was either annoyed or worried, which kicked up Dean's stress level a notch.

"It's Dad," Sam informed him, his forehead puckered as he hit the talk button.

"Hi, Dad," he said cautiously, worry winning out because their Dad never called Sam when Dean could be available.

" _Hey, Sammy. Happy Birthday, Son."_

 _Oh, right._

Sam ignored his brother's questioning look, and sat up a little straighter in his chair simply from muscle memory.

"Thanks, Dad. Is everything okay? Are you okay?" he asked, a little worried.

" _Yeah, kiddo. Everything is fine."_

Dad sounded tired, like he usually did after a hunt, and Sam could have sworn that he sounded a little sad too, but his father usually didn't do sad too often if it wasn't related to their mother, so maybe he was just imagining it.

" _What about you boys? Doing anything fun?"_

Sam nodded at Dean, silently letting him know that their father was fine, watching the relief wash over his brother's slightly pale face.

"Um, yes, sir. We're just having dinner. Dean took me to a museum and then to the movies," he rambled on, immediately snapping his mouth shut as he realized that he had just told John that he hadn't been in school today. Cursing himself, he bit back a yelp when Dean gave him a vicious kick under the table.

His brother was glaring at him now and he scrunched his face apologetically, sorry that his mouth might cause trouble for the both of them. Fortunately Dad didn't seem to notice.

" _That's good, kiddo. Listen, Sammy. I'm sorry I'm not there. I wanted to be. Maybe next week. We'll do something special when I get back, okay?"_

And Sam sighed, because he had been given this speech before, so he was used to it. Dad would keep his word, and they would do something together as a family when they were reunited. Probably dinner, and maybe a "fun" outing that would involve getting familiar with whatever weapon his father gave him as a birthday gift. But he wished that his father wasn't absent quite so much, especially on special days like this.

"Sure, Dad," he replied, as respectfully as he could, because he knew from experience that kicking up a fuss over the phone wasn't productive for anything other than picking a fight.

" _Okay, Son. I'll see you soon. You mind your brother while I'm gone."_

"Yes, sir," he promised for the millionth time. His matching command to Dean's W _atch out for Sammy._

" _Let me talk to your brother for a minute."_

Sam handed his phone over to Dean's anxious hand, picking up his fork and poking around at the food on his plate that seemed a little less pleasing than it had a minute ago. He idly listened to Dean's side of the conversation which never really amounted to more than " _Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir."_

Dean had such blind devotion to their father and sometimes Sam just couldn't understand why his big brother would never question a word the man said. Their father wasn't perfect. Not by a long shot. But his brother faithfully carried out every order Dad gave with unwavering obedience, even when Sam was pretty sure that underneath it all, Dean disagreed with what he was being told to do.

A few tables over, a small family were enjoying their dinner. Sam watched them enraptured. Probably a little on the creepy side to be perfectly honest. Father, mother, two teenage boys and a little girl. They were laughing, the parents listening to their kids teasing each other about the spiciness of their meals. Sam watched jealously as the little family interacted with each other, so easily and natural, and a pang of hurt engulfed him as he found himself missing his father and yearning for the mother he couldn't remember to casually push the hair off his forehead the way the mother at the other table had just done with her younger son.

Dean handed back his phone just as their entrees arrived. Several silver dishes filled with steaming meats and vegetables in sauces and fluffy rice, along with a basket of hot wedges of pita like bread. As the little feast was spread out in front of them, Sam twisted his lips in grim realization that his appetite had waned, although there would be plenty to take home for dinner tomorrow, so that was a plus.

"Sammy? You with me?" he heard Dean ask, his voice laced with concerned as he frowned at Sam.

Sam nodded and mentally shook off his momentary sorrow. Dean had given him such a great day, and he felt a wave of shame pass over him for his ungrateful thoughts on his lack of family a few minutes ago. His brother deserved better than to have him only halfway present while they ate.

To please Dean, he made an effort to dig in, enjoying the myriad of flavors that was a far cry from their normal fare. Sam liked to try new things, explore different cultures and expose himself to exciting and less life endangering experiences than he was usually given the opportunity to. And as he thought about it, that wasn't really fair either.

Dad was pretty good about checking out local attractions while they crisscrossed back and forth around the country. Sam was lucky he supposed, because he got to see a lot that most kids he met at his various school could only dream about. Just last year, Dad took them to see the Aztec temples in Mexico City after they hunted a chupacabra. But it was as if the trips were spoiled by the purpose of them.

It was hard to enjoy seeing the world's largest ball of twine (not that large, really) when the night before you were stitching up your brother, under your father's intense scrutiny, while Dean was practically bleeding out at the motel from a run in with a pissed off spirit.

For Dean's sake, he tried to keep his enthusiasm up during the rest of their meal, but he should have known better, because he couldn't fool his brother any more than his brother could fool him. Back in the car, Dean relieved because he was back behind the wheel, his brother called him out on his earlier bout of melancholy.

"Alright, spill, bitch. What's got your panties in a twist?"

Sam sighed, not wanting to bring the mood down anymore than he already had, but his brother was like a dog with a bone when he thought that Sam was hiding something, and the inquisition wouldn't end until the younger brother had spilled his guts to his big brother's satisfaction.

"Dad said he might be back next week," he answered, his voice flat and final.

Dean snorted, and he threw his little brother a carefree smile. "Yeah, he told me that too. That's great, isn't it? He's been gone too long as it is."

"Deeean," Sam practically whined, annoyed that he didn't seem to get it. "If he comes back that early, then I'll probably have to leave school. It's so close to the end of the year and I don't want to move again so soon."

He threw his brother a baleful look, noticing the frown that spread across Dean's face. He could tell that his brother was conflicted. Dean would want their Dad back safe and sound and as soon as possible, but he was also aware of what another move would do to Sam's school record if he couldn't account for end of term exams anywhere. Sam also knew that Dean liked this particular job and this particular town.

"I'll talk to him," Dean promised, only half convincingly, because John Winchester didn't take suggestions from his kids.

They drove for a few more minutes, Sam's face pressed against the window as the miles ticked by, his breath fogging up the glass.

"Do you still want to know what I wished for this year?" he asked absently, avoiding his brother's searching gaze.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean replied quietly, turning back to watch the road. "Yeah, I do."

"I wanted to be normal," he admitted. "Even if it's just for a little while," he added, rubbing his forehead where the moisture from the window was pressing against his bangs.

"It won't come true anyway, so I don't need to worry about superstitions," Sam added a little ruefully.

"Normal is boring, Sam," his brother stated, matter-of-fact. "I'm not normal, and look how the ladies love me," he added, putting the fake charm in his voice that Sam knew masked his sorrow.

"You had normal for four years," Sam reminded him, specifically turning away to avoid seeing the pain that the reminder of Dean's childhood always brought on. It wasn't his intention to bring up painful memories, but sometimes he wondered if Dean truly understood that Sam had never experienced even a shred of a regular life.

He clamped his eyes shut, expecting the usual lashing out that Dean threw at him whenever they talked about the past. Mom was practically a taboo subject most of the time, and Sam had to beg for bits and pieces about their family life _before_ because the subject was usually too overwhelming for both his father and brother to discuss. He was used to their ire when he dared mention it.

"I know, Sammy," Dean muttered quietly, surprising Sam with his less than hostile response.

They drove in silence for a few more minutes, with Sam covertly studying his brother's face as he drove. Dean was an introverted thinker, the polar opposite of both John and Sam who were more 'shout first and ask questions later' type of conversationalists. He hated to see Dean look so uncomfortable after the nice day he had tried so hard to give.

"I am pretty lucky though," Sam stated firmly, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. "I have the most awesome big brother who gave me a really great birthday."

Dean threw him a quick look, and Sam gave him his most sincere smile, practically willing Dean to see the truth of his words. The grim introspective frown slowly slid off of Dean's face, replaced with a genuine smile and a spark of mischief twinkling in his eyes.

"You're damn right, you do," he agreed enthusiastically, sparing them both from further uncomfortable chatter by cranking up the radio and blaring AC/DC as they made their way back to the motel.

 _/_

There was no quarter given in the War of the Winchesters.

Dean would swear on a stack of bibles that Sam's back went up the minute their father crossed over the town border a week after Sam's birthday. It was like the kid could practically sense Dad approaching, even though he had given no specific date of arrival at Hi-View.

One minute Sam was sitting at the kitchenette quietly doing his calculus homework, made significantly more easy thanks to his nifty new toy, and then the next he was crabby and spoiling for a fight for absolutely no reason. Honestly, at this point, Dean wasn't even surprised when their Dad strolled through the door using the spare key he had taken with him at his departure weeks earlier.

Almost immediately they were at each other's throats over literally everything. Dean no longer bothered to keep track of the disputes, they were all so petty. Dad couldn't tell Sam what the time of day was without his pain in the ass little brother questioning the veracity of the answer. Even when their father gave Sam the ornately carved Suan Ywe Gou blade he had procured from Caleb on the trip back for Sam's birthday gift, the kid couldn't even find the graciousness to be appreciative of Dad's offer to spend an evening with him showing Sam how to use it with the most effect.

It was getting to the point that Dean couldn't be comfortable heading to the grill for his evening shift without feeling the need to sprint back to the unit a few times a night to check and make sure that they hadn't killed each other yet.

Randy had generously offered a complimentary room for John's use so that he wouldn't have to squeeze in on a rollaway in the already small quarters, and Dean suspected that his boss was bending over backwards because he had a suspicion that the family would be pulling out sooner than he had been hoping and was trying to make them all as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. So tensions were lower than they could have been because at least there were walls to separate John and Sam for a few hours a day.

Still, on more than one occasion, Dean had checked in on them only to find them mid battle, the hollow core motel doors practically vibrating from the volume of their shouting. He had expected trouble on this particular evening because Dad had dragged Sam back to their rooms right after dinner in the grill, having found the next hunt and needing help taking notes from a few lore books that Bobby had loaned him.

As he hurried down the sidewalk, his hands full with plates of apple cobbler than both his father and brother favored, he could hear the raised voices four doors away and he swore under his breath while picking up his pace. By the time he opened the door to the unit he shared with Sam, balancing the plates on one hand so he could turn the key and push the door open with the other, his father and brother were going toe to toe in the middle of the room, appearing to be completely unaware of his arrival.

"Samuel, I'm not going to tell you again," Dad growled, his eyes glaring menacingly. "People's lives are at stake, so you sit your ass down and do the job!"

"Screw the job," Sam yelled, his face flushed and his breathing hitched. "I didn't choose to spend my life doing this shit!"

 _Oh God,_ Dean thought, rolling his eyes heavenwards in frustration. _Here we go_

He shoved the plates of cobbler on top of the dresser next to the door and went to insert himself between the two other Winchesters before this scene got too ugly. Usually their father would allow him to calm Sam down before the kid's mouth got him in deeper, but Dad apparently wasn't in a charitable mood at the moment. Which made Dean wonder how long this verbal tug of war had been waging already.

John put a hand on Dean's chest and firmly pushed him back, keeping his eldest from wedging in between himself and his younger son. He held Sam's infuriated glare without blinking, leaning further forward into the kid's space, minutely pleased when the boy had the sense to back up an inch.

"You want a choice, young man?" he demanded, his voice deceptively calm. "I'll give you a choice."

Putting himself directly in Sam's face, a warning finger poked firmly in the kid's chest, he narrowed his eyes.

"Either get yourself in the chair and get to work, or I will put you in the chair myself," he warned, his deep voice rumbling and dangerous. "But I'm telling you right now, if I have to put you in it? My belt's coming off first. _Your_ _choice_."

Sam's scowl was pure fury as he grit his teeth to keep himself from saying anything further, and Dean could see his little brother's chest heaving deeply, his shoulders radiating tension. Sam's stubbornness had pushed their father too far on several occasions, because the kid who was usually so smart couldn't seem to remember to keep his mouth shut when it came to fighting with their dad.

If Dad was already belt level mad, they clearly had been sparring for longer than Dean had suspected. He didn't have any trouble believing that John would keep his word if Sam didn't obey because their father always followed through on a threat. Why Sam couldn't remember that, Dean didn't know.

"Sammy," he called out softly, trying to lower the hostility in the room. "C'mon, man. Just do what Dad says already."

Sam glared at Dean out of the corner of his eye because he refused to turn away from his father for even a second. His mouth puckered as a wave of betrayal hit him, wanting Dean to be on _his_ side for a change, but Sam knew that it was just as likely that Dean would spit in their father's face as disagree with him.

"Listen to your brother, Samuel," his father advised, removing the finger from Sam's chest. "He's giving you good advice."

For a brief moment, Sam contemplated telling his father what he could do with the lore books and taking the consequences, but realistically he knew it wouldn't be worth it. Sam was already a big kid and getting larger and stronger by the day, but he still accepted that his father was perfectly capable of physically sitting Sam down in the chair if he decided to, so he shamefully found himself backing down.

One way or another Sam always wound up doing exactly what his father told him to do, so what good did it do him to have to spend hours taking notes while sitting on a sore ass? He'd had to do it before, because this wasn't Sam's first rebellion over research, and it just _sucked_.

Sam shut his eyes in frustration, taking a second to will his emotions to calm down before sliding into the chair next to the heavy, ragged cloth books. Only one more year, he told himself as he silently stewed. In one more year he could get out from under his father's thumb and start living his own life.

"Everything in the first five chapters, Sam," he heard his father instruct. "You understand, young man?"

Sam curled his hands into fists under the table, practically cutting into the skin of his palms as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"Yes, sir," he bit out as respectfully as he could, just wanting his dad out of the room and leaving him alone already.

"And you can run an extra five miles tomorrow for that smart mouth of yours," his father said sternly as he stormed out to head back to his own room, slamming the door as he left.

Dean rubbed his face, shaking his head as a pounding pain developed near his temples. These little pissing contests between his father and brother were exhausting.

"You could have backed me up for once," he heard Sam mutter petulantly from his place at the table.

"Yeah, and you could have just done what you were told for once, too," Dean shot back, tired of the nonsense. "I save your ass all the time. Why do you have to always be like that, Sammy?"

Sam scowled, even as he opened the book to the appropriate page and grabbed a pen.

"He doesn't have the right to just order me around like that, Dean," he protested, the grip on the pen so tight Dean worried it might snap.

"Uh, yeah he does, genius. Like it or not, you're still a kid and he's still your father," Dean reminded his brother. "Dad does what he does for a reason. Don't forget that."

"This is bullshit," Sam snapped, shoving his notebook aside. "No other guy in my school is spending the evening taking notes on witchcraft lore."

Dean shuddered involuntarily because he hated witches, and wasn't really keen on heading to the next gig. They were just nasty. He sighed, because now that Sam's anger was receding, he could see his little brother's shoulders sagging in defeat and sadness.

"Yeah, that's true," Dean agreed. He grabbed the plates of cobbler from the dresser and laid them in front of the kid as a peace offering.

"But they don't have awesome big brothers that offer room service with their favorite dessert either. You can even eat Dad's if it makes you feel better to deprive the old man of a treat," he winked conspiratorially.

His brooding little brother glared side eyed at the plates before deciding that, since he had already punked out in the fight with his father, his disposition could be bought if the price was right. Right now the price of his tolerance returning was two servings of Chef Emily's homemade cobbler.

Dean smirked, grabbing one plate and dumping its contents on top of the other. His father would probably be more in the mood for a shot of whisky than dessert anyway.

"Don't get that crap on Bobby's books or he'll kill you," he advised Sam, who knew it was true. "I'll be back in a few hours. Behave yourself."

Sam took in a deep breath and chose to say nothing inflammatory, scooping up a big forkful of the cobbler as he began to scan the first pages. Taking that as his cue to leave, Dean slipped out of the door, not surprised to see his father leaning in the open doorway of his own room, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans.

"He working?" Dad asked, jutting his chin towards the door to the boys' room.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied easily, dropping down onto the chair propped up against the wall under the room's window. He needed to get back to the bar soon, but it was Monday night and fairly slow, so he knew he had some time.

His father joined him in the adjacent seat and leaned back, closing his eyes as he rubbed them.

"Your brother is more than I have the strength for most days," he said tiredly. "I know it's payback. My stepfather always said it was a miracle he didn't kill me before I joined the Marines."

Dean laughed quietly, having heard many stories about the step grandfather who had died before he was born. It was because of him that John joined the Corps after spending his early teens hearing war stories of his stepfather's days in the service.

The two of them sat in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes while Dean worked up the nerve to approach his father about a sensitive topic.

"What is it?" his father asked suddenly, and Dean smiled because he should have known that his dad would sense he had something on his mind.

Nervously, Dean rubbed the back of his neck. Another one of his tells that his father spotted instantly and resulting in him nudging his son's knee with his own to get his attention.

"C'mon, dude. Spill already."

Dean sat up straighter, pivoting to his side to squarely address his father.

"What are the chances that Sammy and I can stay here until he's done at school for the year? It's only a few more weeks," he rushed on, not wanting to lose momentum or his father's indulgence. "I'm making decent money. It would be nice to have a little cushion when we move on."

John frowned, his mind warring over the practical validation of his son's argument and his own inner panic at leaving his boys on their own too long. He had already been gone for a few weeks, longer than he cared to, and he had been anxious to have them within sight again. The life necessitated that he occasionally be parted from them, for their own safety, but he didn't like it one bit.

"Please?" he heard Dean say quietly.

He turned towards his son and looked deep into Dean's bright green eyes, seeing the naked pleading in them. His eldest never begged for anything for himself, and John knew his kid too well to think that this wasn't all about Sam's oft repeated demand for stability. He pondered refusing just out of sheer stubbornness because his younger son was too spoiled by far sometimes. His little tantrum earlier being proof of that.

But Dean was right. They had a good set up here, and it would be foolish to pull them away just for spite and John's own bruised ego that his little boy pitching a fit again. John could do the next gig easily enough on his own after all these years of hunting solo. And if it made Dean's life slightly easier to wrangle a brother that wasn't chomping at the bit twenty four seven, then John owed it to his eldest to at least do that.

"Yeah, okay," he finally agreed, a niggling spasm of guilt pinching his gut when he heard his son release the breath he hadn't realized the kid had been holding in.

"But your brother isn't getting a pass," John warned his eldest. "Until you leave to come join me, he's on lock down except for chores and training."

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed quickly, eager to consent to anything that his father required if it allowed Sam to stay in his current school.

"Not one extra day, Dean," John stated firmly, getting his point across. "As soon as Sam's last class is done, you pack up and head out."

"Yes, sir," Dean nodded. He glanced quickly at his watch and realized that he really needed to get back before JP helped himself to all the tips. He stood, grabbing the dirty extra plate that he had taken from his room, and turned to leave.

"Thanks, Dad," he said softly, before sprinting back down the sidewalk and into the grill.

By the time Dean's shift was over, later than usual because he stayed behind to mop up for JP to pay him back for covering earlier, Sam was already in bed, his mop of brown hair buried in the pillows. On the table Dean could see page after page of his brother's neat handwriting ready for their father's perusal in the morning.

He quietly slipped into the bathroom, closing the door as silently as he could and turning the shower on. The cigarette smoke was especially heavy tonight since his best tipper had lit the next one with the one she was just finishing all night. He was happy to flirt and take her money, but he smelled like an ashtray.

He let the water pound down on his weary body longer than normal. For an old place, the Hi-View had pretty decent water pressure, and he was happy to indulge in it as long as possible. Who knew what the next place would be like.

Emerging in a cloud of steam, wearing only his amulet and a towel wrapped around his slim waist, he moved around the main room quietly, pulling pajama pants and a clean shirt from the closet where he had finally hung his clothes. By the time he had dressed for bed, he knew from the sound of his brother's breathing that the kid was awake and playing possum.

"It's late, Sammy," he whispered as he slipped under the covers. "You've got school in a few hours."

"Doesn't matter," Sam answered, his words muted by the pillow over his mouth.

Dean smirked in the darkness over the kid's full on sulk. Such a little drama queen.

"Ah, yeah it does, genius," he scolded mildly. "I talked Dad into letting us stay until your classes are finished for the year. Don't make me look bad by flunking out now."

Gratifyingly, Sam shot up in bed, and even in the semi-darkness of the room, he could see the kid wide-eyed and mouth gaping open.

"Seriously?" Sam shouted, before being shushed by his brother. "Seriously?" he asked again, much quieter this time.

"Yeah, seriously," Dean answered, his voice tinged with indulgent affection. "Now get your ass to sleep because I'm wiped out and I gotta drive you in a few hours."

Sam obediently slid back down and dragged his blankets up to his neck. In the other bed, Dean shifted, getting comfortable, the tension of the past few days easing off and his mind shutting down. He slowly drifted, the buzzing in his head from an evening of stress, yelling and too loud country music starting to recede. From Sam's bed he heard a quiet whisper.

"Thank you, big brother."

And that was all Dean needed to slip off into peaceful slumber.


	2. June 2000

The ancient cemetery was nearly pitch black, the heavy clouds obscuring the faint glow of the quarter moon that might have given them even the tiniest bit of ambient light as Sam shoveled dirt back into the freshly dug up grave. His eyes were hurting from having to squint since the two antiquated camping lights were not doing a great job of illuminating the area.

Sam's outer shirt was tied around his waist, his T-shirt clinging to him like a second skin in the humid North Carolina air, rivulets of sweat cascading down his back, chest and arms between the heat and the manual labor. He paid no attention to the blisters that were slowly forming on his hands as he dumped shovelful after shovelful of damp mossy earth into the hole, the casket and bones still radiating heat like a furnace from the salt and burn.

The air was dense but silent, the cemetery far from any road or house. It's like that with these tiny older bone yards, and it makes their job a little easier when they don't have to worry about prying eyes or ears as they get the job done. Aside from the occasional cicada, the only sounds were Sam's labors and the odd grunt or hiss from the trunk of the car where Dad had popped Dean's shoulder back in place and was now taping his bruised ribs.

Sam doesn't have to look at his father to know the man is wearing the disapproving frown that his face sports when he is displeased with the behavior of one of his wayward sons. Dean broke protocol by throwing himself in the line of fire of the pissed off ghost of Maynard Briggs while Dad took care of the remains. Maynard had hurled Dean into one of the crumbling headstones, and Sam could still hear the sickening crack of his brother's flung body crashing through the smooth rock. It's not the first time Dean has been thrown against a gravestone, and Sam sadly ponders the fact that it probably won't be the last time either.

Sam himself met the sharp, pointy side of a tree when he attempted to distract the spirit away from his unconscious brother, but there had been no time for real retaliation from Maynard. A split second later, Sam had seen his father's face light up with the scorching red glow of fire from the grave, and Maynard's sizzling ghostly wisp along with it.

All he wanted to do now was fill the hole back in and head back to the motel for a hot shower and a few hours sleep on the lumpy cheap mattress. From the back of the car, he heard the sounds of frustrated debate as Dean attempted to dodge the painkillers that Dad was insisting on dispensing to him. Dean didn't care for them, Sam knew. They made his brother too groggy and he always woke up disoriented and crabby. It was a wasted effort, Sam thought, as he continued to shovel. Dad was going to win anyway, like he always did, so it was no use trying to fight him.

Sure enough, not a minute later, the passenger door of the Impala was pulled open and Dean was being forced to sit, probably before he fell down. Dad was striding back towards Sam, his own face slick with sweat and streaks of dirt, shoulders broad and intimidating in the glow of the camping lamp he carried with him. He reached out and pulled the shovel from Sam's hands, handing him the lamp.

"Go sit with your brother. I'll finish this."

Sam wanted to check on his brother, but the stubborn streak in him took umbrage at being told to do it.

"I'm almost done, Dad," he protested, attempting to grab the shovel back. "Just let me finish and we can go."

" _Sam,_ " Dad growled, holding the shovel firmly with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other, "just go sit with your brother!"

Sam huffed, but did as he was told. It didn't take a genius to see that his father was in no mood to be messed with right now. He stomped back over toward his brother, his shoulders taut with irritation, and flopped on the ground in front of where Dean was sitting with his legs out of the car. His brother's face was pale underneath the tan freckles and his eyes were closed, but Sam could see the pain Dean was unsuccessfully trying to suppress.

"You okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned because his brother really did look like shit.

"'m fine, Sammy," Dean groaned quietly, carefully leaning to rest his head against the door frame.

"Damn head is spinning now from those freakin' pills Dad made me take."

"What were you thinking, Dean?" Sam demanded, a little pissed at seeing his brother banged and bruised. "We were only supposed to shoot at him, not let him chase us!"

"I was thinking that I didn't want him going after you," Dean barked back, instantly regretting it when his ribs screamed at him for moving so quickly. "You didn't shoot, Sam."

Sam bit back another retort because he realized that his brother was right. Sam hadn't been ready to fire when Maynard appeared next to him. He hadn't been prepared like he was taught, and now his brother was paying the price for his mistake.

He averted his gaze away from his brother, ashamed of his inaction and even more for his rebuke. He glanced towards the grave, not surprised to see that Dad was already just about finished up. The man was a machine, never seeming to tire, no matter how much physical exertion he did.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam muttered, unable to look his brother in the face.

Dean sighed and shifted a little more, trying to find a comfortable position. Between his ribs and his shoulder, it was a difficult task right now.

"I know," he said tiredly. "I'm sorry Dad is going to have my ass when we get back for breaking protocol too," he sighed, rubbing his eyes.

If possible, Sam felt even worse than he had a second ago, because he knew it was true. Dean had disobeyed a direct order, and their father did not look kindly at things like that. Shit was going to hit the fan when they got back to the motel, once Dad had reassured himself that his boys were physically okay.

Sam heard his father's heavy boot steps coming up behind him quickly and knew that it was time to go. He hefted himself up from the damp ground and held out a steadying hand as Dean pulled himself up from the passenger seat.

"Let's go, boys," Dad ordered. "Dean, give your brother the keys. You're in no shape to drive."

Dean immediately began to protest, but was shut down quickly by his father. Without preamble, John grabbed Dean by a belt loop, holding him firm, and dug the car keys out of his son's front pocket.

"That wasn't a request, Son," he barked, throwing the keys in Sam's direction.

Dean stared daggers at his father for the few seconds that he dared to. John glared back, wordlessly quenching the fire of his eldest's brief rebellion until Dean relaxed his stance and allowed his dad to help ease him back into the passenger seat while Sam, a bit too eagerly for Dean's taste, hopped behind the wheel and brought the car's engine roaring to life.

While John got Dean situated as well as possible to protect his shoulder and ribs, he leaned over towards Sam, lightly pressing a restraining hand on the steering wheel.

"Respect the vehicle, Sammy," he ordered, displeased with the unnecessary enthusiasm with which Sam gunned the engine. "And follow me closely. No stunt driving."

Sam huffed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes which would only get him in trouble. Dad would forever treat him like a child, he thought angrily as he slumped a little in the seat. It wasn't Sam's fault that Dean almost never let him drive the car. His brother had been driving the Impala since he was eleven and could barely reach the pedals, and ever since then Dean had treated the car like it was already his own.

Sam was thirteen before John had started teaching him because his growth was slower than Dean's had been. Now, at seventeen, he had legally had a license for almost a year, but his jerk brother refused to let him drive, so sue Sam if he wanted to enjoy the brief moments when he was allowed behind the wheel.

" _Sam_ ," his father growled, expecting verbal confirmation that his orders would be obeyed.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied, clenching his teeth together to prevent himself from starting a fight unnecessarily.

It was getting harder and harder to keep his temper in check lately, the few weeks respite from daily contact with their father while Sam had finished school beginning to wear off.

Dean had already had their motel room in Oklahoma packed up and their belongings in the car when he picked Sam up from his last day at school. Orders were orders, and since Dad had been accommodating enough to allow them to stay on longer than originally planned, Dean was going to make sure that his father's instructions were followed.

It had been a seventeen hour drive from the Hi-View to meet up with Dad outside of Charlotte, NC. Dean, usually happy to indulge in lazy back roads driving and leisurely enjoy his time at the wheel of his baby, had raced on highways to rejoin John in the field, stopping only for a few brief power naps. Sam had been more than annoyed that Dean had chosen to stop a few times instead of letting his little brother drive but, after the first rejection, he decided it wasn't worth the fight.

Truthfully, both boys had been happy to see their father. To everyone's surprise, Sam didn't rush to pull out of Dad's welcoming hug when they arrived, enjoying the familiar comfort of being wrapped in his father's strong arms which still had the ability to make both of his sons feel safe, and John happily held onto his normally surly teenager for as long as Sam tolerated it.

Dean slipped back into the relaxed security of his father's orbit, ghosting John's movements as they researched and prepared for the job. He was only truly happy when in the company of both his father and little brother, as if a piece of himself was missing when one of the other Winchesters were not present. Together again, he was looking forward to a good summer, when Sam's school needs didn't conflict with the hunts that his father found.

That was last week.

Now Sam was beginning to chafe under John's dominant personality again, even when he didn't really want to fight with his father. He had also promised himself that he would try hard to keep his mouth shut, for Dean's sake, as much as possible during the summer to pay his brother back for sitting on the supernatural sidelines in Oklahoma when he knew perfectly well that Dean would have been much happier fighting alongside John these past few weeks.

It was a testament to how much pain his brother actually was in that Dean leaned back in the seat with his eyes tightly shut while Sam followed their father's truck back to the motel. Normally, the older brother sat like a hawk, watching every tiny movement when Sam was actually allowed behind the wheel. Sam was driving exceptionally cautiously and smoothly. More concerned that his brother's battered body was not jarred by any unexpected sudden movement than he was with Dean's approval of his driving skills.

When Sam glided to a slow halt in front of their motel room, Dean grunted and forced his eyes open, turning slightly to blink owlishly at his little brother.

"Sammy?"

Sam frowned at the confusion in his brother's voice, worried that maybe Dean, despite no external evidence, had sustained a concussion as well. Fortunately, Dean seemed to shake off his lethargy almost immediately, sitting up and hissing when he moved his shoulder too quickly.

"Damn pills," he groaned, shifting a little more to grab the door handle.

Dad was already at Dean's door, opening it and reaching in to assist his injured son to his feet. If it had been Sam trying to help, he knew his brother would have smacked his hands away and insisted on trudging the few steps on his own power, but Dean didn't dare try that with their father. He allowed his dad to help him stand and was actually grateful for the strong supporting arm wrapped around his waist as he stumbled towards the door to their motel room.

"Sammy, get the bags," Dad called out over his shoulder as he guided Dean inside.

Sam obediently grabbed his bag and Dean's out of the trunk of the Impala, selecting a few basic weapons as well, because you never knew what you might need, and then grabbed Dad's bag out of the truck. With all three hefted over his shoulder, he followed his father and brother into the room and dumped them on the kitchenette table. John eased his eldest down onto the bed Dean had claimed for himself earlier in the week, ignoring his son's protest as he unlaced Dean's boots before pulling them off along with his socks.

"'m not five," Dean muttered, sulking in a voice that a real five year old could claim.

Sam could have sworn that he saw his father roll his eyes but quickly dismissed the idea. John Winchester didn't have a sense of humor that his younger son was aware of.

"You're not getting undressed without help with those ribs either," Dad said firmly. "Can you stand up to get your jeans off?"

The tightness in Dean's expression told Sam volumes about just how much his brother didn't want to get back on his feet but, with their father hovering over him, there was no way Dean was going to be allowed to just curl up under the blankets fully dressed, so he gave John a quick nod and groaned his way back up to a hunched over standing position.

His father held him steady as he unbuttoned and unzipped with shaky hands, pushing his mud filthy and torn jeans down to his buckling knees. John eased him back down to a sitting position and tugged them off the rest of the way, ignoring the affronted glare his eldest was shooting at him. The older hunter was tired and hungry and not in the mood to tread gently with his son over personal space. The sooner Dean was undressed and asleep in bed, the sooner John and Sam could shower and eat.

With the practiced hands of a father who had often undressed two cranky, sleepy and non compliant children over the years, John swiftly removed Dean's sweat soaked T-shirt without disturbing the injured shoulder and bundled his eldest under the blankets. Dean's drug stupor had him asleep before his head even hit the flat mangled motel pillow, his father grabbing an extra blanket out of the closet and draping it over his son. The ancient AC unit was kicking out a fair amount of cold air that felt good now, but with Dean asleep in only his boxers, John didn't want the kid to wake up shivering once the pain meds had worn off.

With his first born medicated and settled for the night, John turned his attention to his younger son who had been sitting at the table quietly observing. The veteran hunter had not failed to notice the hit Sam took against the tree earlier, nor the blood stain on the boy's back afterwards. Neither seemed to be something to immediately worry about but, now that his more injured child had been tended to, John needed to see to his younger son as well.

"Sammy, take your shirt off, kiddo," John ordered gently, crossing the room to the kitchen area. "Let me see the injury to your back."

Sam immediately stiffened out of reflex. He was seventeen for crying out loud. He didn't need his daddy putting a Band Aid on his boo boo like a toddler. He slipped out of the forties era kitschy chair and tried to make a break for the bathroom.

"It's fine, Dad," he insisted, ducking his head away from his father's increasingly irritated frown. "It doesn't even hurt."

John reached out and snaked Sam's arm, his grip firm but not painful, and wondering, not for the first time that evening, exactly when his offspring had decided that their father's commands were optional.

"Not asking, Son," he growled, halting the boy's attempted escape. "Get your shirt off and take a damn seat."

Sam huffed and postured, mentally debating the merits of picking a fight and then deciding against it after casting a quick glance at his sleeping brother. Dean needed rest to begin healing his injuries, and a brawl between his father and brother would rouse him even from a drug induced sleep. Sam frowned in defeat and grudgingly sat back down in his recently vacated seat. He lifted his shirt to yank it off, only to feel the sharp sting on his shoulder when the fabric pulled away taking a fair amount of dried on blood and soft skin with it. He drew a quick pained breath between his teeth and scowled, knowing that he had just proven to his father that the man had been right to worry after all.

John pulled the first aid kit out of his go bag, arranging the contents in an orderly fashion, before going to the sink and thoroughly washing his hands. _Stubborn kid_ , he thought, weary and annoyed. Everything had to be such a fight with Sam. Now his son had a trail of blood wending its way down his back. Sammy could lose an arm during a hunt and would still insist to his father that nothing was wrong, just to be contrary.

Silently fuming, Sam sat quietly as his father cleaned his wound and assessed the damage, breathing a sigh of relief when John decided that he could close the gash with a butterfly instead of stitches. The boy had experienced motel room stitches before and it was never an experience that you got used to. His dad worked quickly and efficiently, his movements soothing and gentle to lessen the pain his son needed to endure during first aid.

It was times like this that made Sam ache to be closer to his father. Dean often accused him of being unnecessarily hostile to John, and even Sam admitted to himself that the emotion that mostly reached the surface of his relationship with his dad was hate.

Sam _hated_ their life. _Hated_ the constant upheaval and danger and futility of chasing a faceless, nameless villain who had torn his family apart. He _hated_ the vagabond drifter schooling and the illegal occupations that kept their little family fed and housed. He _hated_ the evil they encountered everywhere and the ever present feeling of never being _safe._ At his various schools over the year, he had met other kids who had lost a parent and still had normal lives and, for that, he _hated_ his father for not choosing to do the same.

But for all that, John was still the only parent Sam had ever known. His big brother loved and cared for him like another father or mother, or both, and while Sam was daily grateful for that, it wasn't quite the same. In spite of all of the arguments and hardships that came with being John Winchester's son, Sam still loved his dad deeply, and that conflict of emotion warred inside of him every day, making him even more angry and prone to lashing out than if he did only feel hate for the man who helped give him life.

"You want the first shower?"

Sam blinked his eyes at the question, startled out of his thoughts by the deep rumble of his father's voice. He hadn't even realized that Dad had finished with his wound care and was now standing in front of him looking concerned. Sam desperately wanted a shower, but John was still mud and sweat soaked, looking pretty rough himself, so he shook his head.

"I can wait."

His dad frowned, visually assessing him with worry still evident in his eyes. He seemed on the verge of saying something, only to change his mind and head into the bathroom, his go bag in his hands.

Sam slumped tiredly across the table, folding his arms and resting his head in the crook of an elbow after hearing the shower start to run. With his shirt off, the cold air in the room produced goose flesh on his sweat and mud crusted skin after only a few minutes. Feeling dirty and itchy, he briefly pondered putting on a shirt, but not wanting to soil one of his few clean ones, he settled for dragging himself over to his bed and pulling the blanket around his shoulders.

Dad didn't take too long in the shower, clearly reserving some of the limited hot water for his son. When he emerged in a cloud of steam, wet hair slicked back and stubble making him look dangerous instead of exhausted as it had moments earlier, he was dressed in clean clothes and seemed ready to go again. John swept his eyes across the room to check on Dean, making sure his oldest seemed to be sleeping comfortably and then dropped his bag next to the fold out couch where he had been sleeping.

"I'm going out to pick up some dinner," he told Sam, whose stomach growled loudly at the reminder that they had not yet eaten that evening. "Keep an eye on your brother."

"Yes, sir."

Sam's tired and detached voice brought a frown to his father's face and before he knew it, John's calloused hand was gripping his chin and forcing his eyes upward. He scowled, but his dad was insistent and Sam knew the drill well enough to know that his father was checking his pupils for signs of concussion.

"I'm fine, Dad," he snapped, trying to pull out of his father's hold and finding himself unable to do so. It was unfair, really, that Dad was so much stronger.

While Sam stewed under John's careful observation, he became hyper aware of Dean beginning to shift slightly in the next bed, so he clamped his mouth shut tightly to avoid challenging his father with heated words that would surely awaken Dean back to consciousness.

Once John had assured himself that his younger son wasn't suffering from any unseen head injuries, he released Sam's chin, trying not to be hurt by the way the boy jerked his head away, his hazel eyes smoldering. He snagged the room key from the table and stalked towards the door.

"Careful with that back wound in the shower," he called over his shoulder, his voice more gruff than he intended.

There was a neon sign for a diner down the street and John decided that he could use the walk, so he bypassed his truck and trudged off down the cracked stone sidewalk. Although it had been a long day, the shower had revitalized him and what he really wanted right now was a good hard run. Even better would be a sparring session with his first born. Dean was now a formidable opponent, and both of the older Winchesters relished the adrenaline rush of friendly hand to hand combat as a stress release.

But Dean was hurt. Again. Selflessly sacrificing his young body to protect his father and brother.

John ran his fingers through his damp hair as he barreled forward in the humid evening. His mind continuously replayed the image of his boy flying through the air and crashing shoulder first into an unforgiving slab of stone. He knew that he would have to tear his son a new one in the morning for disregarding a direct order and placing himself in the line of fire, even when he really just ached to gather up both of his boys in his arms and use his own body to shield them from anything that threatened them with harm.

But he couldn't do that.

Their family was cursed, and John didn't have the luxury of coddling his children the way the love of a doting father inside of him wanted to. His boys needed to be ready, always. Prepared for whatever came at them, and it was his job to raise them right, even if it made them hate him. So when his boy woke from a drug induced slumber after being slam dunked into a gravestone, John would force the protective paternal affection back down his own throat and make himself verbally flay his son for a mistake that his child should never have been put into a position to make.

John knew that his actions made him a bastard. A tyrant of a drill sergeant that bullied his kids into obedience and submission. His boys were his entire world, his love for them intense enough to suck the air right out of his lungs when he allowed himself to really feel it. He had already lost his Mary, and John would be damned before he let his children be taken from him. So if that meant he had to be hard on them, he would be. It was that simple.

They might look at him with loathing in their eyes, but that was okay as long they were alive to do it. That was what was important.

Stepping into the diner his nostrils were assaulted with the overly familiar smell of bacon grease and fryer oil. The place was clean for the neighborhood and the scent of sanitizing solution wafted from the empty tables and counter. He plopped down onto one of the swiveling counter stools and grabbed a menu from the small metal rack in front of him, pleased when it wasn't sticky with an unidentified substance on the surface like he had experienced more than once.

While he was reading the daily specials, a short brunette in her mid thirties came bustling out of the kitchen with a pie in each hand. Even from the distance, John could smell the freshly baked crust and warm fruit and he made a mental note to purchase one for Dean. A small peace offering for after the sharp dressing down he was in store for. The Hunter's voice inside John growled its displeasure for such an indulgence, but for once the Father's voice won the argument.

He may have to tear into his kid up one side and back down the other, but he could give the boy some damn pie afterwards if he wanted to.

"What can I get you, handsome?"

John turned his gaze towards the dark haired waitress and easily picked up on her more than professional interest in him. He was used to the attention, having always been a pretty good looking guy. Sometimes his dark good looks came in handy for work when he needed to charm information out of a lonely clerk or librarian. Sometimes it was just annoying or uncomfortable in a life where it was decidedly unhelpful to be remarkable looking and could get you identified easily.

The waitress gifted him with a huge smile and he returned one of his own. Not particularly interested, although it had been awhile since he had enjoyed the company of a woman in his bed. Another time he might have been tempted to indulge in a couple of hours of pleasure with a willing partner, but tonight he needed to get back to his boys, getting Sam fed and making sure that Dean was sleeping as painlessly as possible.

Besides, he preferred blondes. It was easier to see Mary's face on the woman he was having sex with when she was a blonde. It had been easier with Nurse Kate up in Minnesota, sweet and caring and not quite curious enough about his suspicious injuries to really pry the truth out of him. Easier with Tara, a fellow hunter that he could share experiences of The Life, their bellies warm with whiskey as they romped between cheap motel sheets.

"Two meatloaf specials, extra gravy on the potatoes and a turkey burger," he answered warmly enough to ensure prompt service, but not warm enough to invite company. "Thank you, sweetheart."

She threw an appreciative glance at him over her shoulder as she bounced back towards the kitchen doors. John chuckled humorlessly to himself as he fingered the gold band on his left hand out of habit. Sixteen and a half years and his Mary's face was still etched sharply in his mind's eye, and he was grateful for that small mercy. Keeping her beautiful face ever present only strengthened his mission, his resolve to bring her justice.

There would be a reckoning one day, he swore it to her with his first breath every single morning. John had resigned himself long ago that he wouldn't make it out of this fight in one piece, and that was okay. That was _fine_ , he accepted it, but the filth that took his Mary would go down with him and would never get it's hands on his boys.

Especially his Sammy. His baby. Whatever _It_ was, John knew his youngest was smack dab in the center of everything, and he wouldn't allow his child to be taken. Not while John himself drew breath.

Bouncy waitress came bounding back over to him, a full pot of coffee in her hand, and she proceeded to pour him a cup without asking.

"You look like you could use this, Sugar," she said gently, her blue eyes flirting with him.

John nodded his thanks, but didn't encourage conversation, to her disappointment, and she took the hint after a moment and bounced off to refill cups further down the counter. He didn't drink the coffee, but he did wrap his hands around the mug to warm them, suddenly feeling cold and weary again, the ever present fear for his sons' safety an icy stabbing in his gut that was only dulled with bloodshed and booze.

When the bags full of styrofoam containers appeared in front of him, he pulled a handful of crumpled bills from his wallet and laid them on the counter. Enough for the dinner for his boys that didn't come from a drive-thru window, a whole cherry guilt pie for his banged up kid, and a decent tip for the flirty lady that was just probably in need of some human contact like John occasionally was.

This wasn't the life he wanted. Not for himself, for his Mary or his boys. But it was the life they had, and John was just going to have to play through the pain.

/

Dad was barely out the motel room door in search of their dinner when Sam threw the blanket off of his bare shoulders and slipped soundlessly into the bathroom. The small room was still damp with condensation from his father's shower and he was careful not to slip on the tiled floor as he adjusted the ancient knobs until a steady steamy spray erupted from the corroded shower head.

Not wanting to waste precious hot water, he quickly kicked off his soiled jeans, boxers and socks and pushed his aching body into the stall. Layer by layer, he felt the sweat and mud slide off his skin as he scrubbed himself with the dwindling bar of generic motel soap. Once in a while Dean would slip him a few bucks to indulge in a good quality body wash that made Sam feel a little more human, but most of the time he had to make do with whatever cheap product the rooms came with.

One day, Sam wouldn't be made happy with name brand toiletries. One day Sam would be happy because he had a nice house and a nice family to live in it. A good life. A safe life. One where he didn't have to rush scrubbing off graveyard dirt just for a few minutes of privacy in a dingy motel shower to be able to jerk off without his father or brother overhearing this most basic of seventeen year old boy needs.

Chest heaving as his blood flow returned to the usual places, he leaned his forehead against the arm he had pressed against the shower wall and caught his breath. He knew Dean wouldn't be waking up any time soon so he didn't feel guilty about soaking himself until the water began to cool down. Only then did he turn the shower off and step out onto the damp bath mat.

He grabbed the only clean towel and dried off, promising himself that he would lift one from the housekeeping cart before Dean needed to wash in the morning, wrapping it around his hips and heading back out into the bedroom. A quick glance in his brother's direction assured Sam that Dean was still out cold, not having moved an inch since being bundled into bed by their father.

Dad would be back soon, assuming there were no bars between the motel and wherever he was picking up dinner, so Sam hurried to pull on his pajama pants and the T-shirt he had been sleeping in the past two nights. Clean and more relaxed, he lay on his stomach on his bed, a used copy of _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ clasped in his hands. He was grateful for the book sale that the library at his school in Oklahoma held on the last day of class, thrilled to have had enough cash in his wallet to acquire seven books, now jammed into the corners of his duffel. His self imposed summer reading list partially covered with minimal fuss.

It wasn't hard to engross himself in the novel, even as his stomach rumbled in its demand to be fed. If it had been Dean getting dinner, Sam might have dug into their snack stash to satisfy his hunger, because his brother would certainly bring back greasy bags of cholesterol, but Sam grudgingly acknowledged that his dad was more likely to produce a decent meal, so he waited.

Less than a chapter in, Sam heard a key in the door rattle and he jumped up from the bed to take the bulging plastic bags from his father's hands. There were suddenly several mouth watering aromas filling the stale motel room air and Sam's stomach growled in impatient anticipation as he emptied the containers on the kitchenette table. Dad headed straight to Dean's bed and Sam watched him gently lay his hand on his brother's head and evaluate his condition.

"He wake up at all?"

"No, sir," Sam answered, his voice matching the quiet tone of his father's question.

His father nodded to himself, hesitating a moment at his son's bedside, seemingly reluctant to leave him just yet. Dad sat on the edge of Sam's bed and continued to watch Dean's chest slowly rise and fall in slumber, only tearing his gaze away long enough to indicate the to-go containers.

"Eat, Sammy," he ordered quietly. "You gotta be starving by now, kiddo."

Sam didn't deny it, quickly pouncing on the container labeled 'turkey burger' knowing that it was for him. Where Dean couldn't understand why his little brother preferred to avoid a heart attack by age thirty, their Dad always made an effort to get Sam healthier meals when possible.

Sitting at the little table, Sam inhaled the sandwich, enjoying the whole grain roll it came on. A far cry from the white, doughy, squashy bread that tasted like pure sugar to him and was the staple of take out sandwiches. The standard diner fries that Sam couldn't ingest anymore were mercifully replaced with carrot and celery sticks and a fresh fruit cup, and Sam threw his father a sincere look of gratitude for the care he had obviously taken when ordering when John eventually joined him at the table.

While his dad took a forkful of his own meatloaf dinner, Sam felt an annoying prickle in the corner of his eyes as he suppressed a ridiculous and uncomfortable longing to bury himself in his father's arms. Why a stupid thing like a turkey burger made him crave affection, he had no clue. Maybe because it was just one of the many small ways that convinced Sam that John actually knew how to be a good father, even though he was more likely to keep his sons at arms length with barked commands and rebukes instead of praise.

His dad wouldn't refuse to hug him, he knew that well enough because John had never denied his children affection. But his father also didn't approve of weakness, and Sam didn't want to show any. Not over something as silly or ordinary as simple diner food.

Instead, the two of them passed the meal in total silence with Sam internally warring against a need to connect with his father, and John keeping his mouth shut to avoid anything that might unintentionally provoke an argument with his youngest. When their containers were empty, John stuck the one containing a meatloaf dinner for Dean into the small motel fridge. His boy would wake up starving and the food would microwave nicely.

"Want some pie?"

Sam looked up from his book to see his father pull a plump pastry from the last bag, a slight twinkle in his eye as he looked over at Dean to see if the magical word woke him. The younger boy laughed softly and shook his head.

"He'd kill me if there was a piece missing," Sam said seriously, making his father chuckle as well.

From the far side of the room they heard a quiet whisper.

" _Pie."_

Dean was frowning in his sleep, moving only slightly before taking a deep sighing breath and beginning to snore again.

At the table, the two other Winchesters laughed as quietly as they could, sharing a rare lighthearted moment before falling into uncomfortable silence again. John cleared his throat, his usual gruff mask back in place.

"Let me check that wound, kiddo. Then you should hit the rack. It's late."

A stinging protest died on Sam's lips as he stopped himself from picking a fight. Instead he turned his back to his father and pulled up his shirt, allowing John to assure himself that no further first aid would be required tonight. He felt his dad easing his shirt back down and the gentle touch he was using broke down Sam's defenses and the boy found himself turning and wrapping his arms around his father. He was surprisingly pleased when Dad didn't even hesitate to pull him close, careful to avoid the back injury as he encircled his boy in a strong embrace.

"You okay, kiddo?" he heard his dad ask with a touch of worry in his voice.

Sam just nodded into his father's shoulder, his nose buried into the comforting flannel that had always been a symbol of _safety, security_ and _home_. As much as he hated his current life, Sam loved his father and brother, and it was the dark little voice itching in the back of his mind that was petrified that they would no longer love him after he left hunting for good once he was eighteen and could decide for himself.

Would his father still want to hold him close when Sam turned his back on the family business?

Thankfully, Dad dropped the inquiry and simply hugged him, easing Sam's guilt of the past week of tension and altercations between them. Sam stayed in the safe circle of his father's embrace until he felt the knot in his chest loosen. Only then did he pull away, his face now flushed with embarrassment over his neediness.

"I'm gonna brush my teeth," he muttered, averting his eyes as he skirted his father's gaze and fled into the bathroom.

/

Morning was still far off when Dean began to stir in wakefulness.

As usual, Dad was already up, the pullout sofa he had been sleeping on looking barely used as he hunched over thick manila folders of newspaper clippings. The older hunter never slept much, even when his head was sluggish from an evening spent with Jim, Jack or Jose. The oldest Winchester brother woke to the smell of bitter burnt motel coffee from the small machine on the counter, the carafe already almost empty from multiple refills of the stained ceramic mug by John's side as he read.

Sam blinked into consciousness unwillingly, roused by his brother's movement, and watched, bleary eyed, as Dean struggled to sit upright. His brother's distress propelled him from his own bed to offer an assisting hand, only to be shoved back.

"Get off me, dude, 'm fine."

Holding an arm around his still painful ribs, Dean struggled briefly to get to his feet and stagger into the bathroom, avoiding both his father and brother attempting to help him. Bracing one hand against the wall, he managed to take a piss without losing his balance, his head still spinning from the pain medication. Which was unfortunate, since it wasn't doing anything for his actual pain at the moment.

With a few suppressed hisses and grunts he got the shower running and then stripped down, still feeling gross from the night before and annoyed that his father had insisted on medicating him before he could even wash up from the hunt. The hot water was pounding against his skin, loosening his taut muscles and helping his headache to recede slightly.

By the time he had maneuvered his way out of the stall, he felt a million times better even as his completely empty stomach roared to life in protest of his neglect to fill it. There were no clean towels left and he swore colorfully when he was forced to dry off using the one from the previous day.

Dad had already heated something in the microwave for him, and the heavenly smell of meat and potatoes greeted Dean when he eventually stumbled out of the bathroom. Still uncoordinated and cranky, he grunted a semblance of thanks in his father's direction before dropping himself down in one of the hard plastic chairs and ripping into his food.

"Can you eat that any faster, Son?" his dad teased, saying the words that both parents had admonished him with when his bad table manners were on display.

"No," Dean replied, around a mouthful of potatoes that threatened to make an unscheduled reappearance on his plate. "No, I cannot."

John laughed, as he was meant to over the little ritual he regularly engaged in with his firstborn. Mary had started it when Dean was just a little guy and couldn't seem to stop eating everything in sight. Over the years it had become a comforting habit, a small silly reminder of happier days. Even at twenty-one, his oldest son still occasionally ate like a child.

Returning to his latest research, John's mouth curved in a small smile as he watched his son eat, making sure the kid didn't face plant into his potatoes. Dean was still clearly tired and disoriented and, when the plate was empty, it didn't take much to persuade him back into his bed for a few more hours. Sam had fallen back asleep almost immediately when his brother went to shower and now, with them both settled again, John took a brief pause to watch his boys slumber peacefully before resuming his reading.

/

It was almost approaching lunch hour by the time the boys surfaced again from sleep. During the morning, John had acquire more soap and towels from the housekeeper when he heard the familiar creak of a cart's wheels lumbering down the walkway between room doors. When the Winchesters stayed in a motel, the _Do Not Disturb_ tag remained firmly in place for the duration, lest an unsuspecting maid come across something that could result in all kinds of trouble for them.

After washing up, Sam was summarily booted from the room to fetch breakfast for everyone. He didn't even need to see his brother's shoulders tense to know that his absence would finally give their father the opening to lay into Dean for his reckless actions the evening before. A burning heat rose in Sam's chest, his indignation and fury over his big brother once again taking the blame for a mistake that Sam had made.

He wasn't going to let it happen this time.

But Dean being Dean, his big brother knew that Sam was about to fall on his sword before the kid had even opened his mouth. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and ribs, Dean pulled a wad of cash out of his pants pocket, grabbed Sam by the back of his shirt and literally shoved the younger boy through the door.

" _Out,_ Sam," he growled, shaking his head slightly in a warning to his little brother to keep his mouth shut. "Dad and I need to talk."

Sam's attempts to protest were met with a slammed door in his face as he stood helplessly outside on the walkway. Defeated, he sighed heavily, annoyed at his martyr of a brother and more than ashamed of himself for not fighting harder to take his share of the blame.

It wasn't the first time that Dean had stood between Sam and their father. It wasn't the one hundred and first time either. Sam's big brother was literally the _Wall of Dean_ , shielding Sam from the wrath of John Winchester from the minute Sam learned how to speak, his first word being _No_ to no one's surprise. A lifelong habit of protection that had only been magnified by Dean's eighteenth birthday when, as an adult, he was no longer subject to the repercussions of a child disobeying his father.

As he ambled along the cracked sidewalk in the path his father had taken the night before, Sam jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and dropped his chin practically to his chest. His brother had two mandates in his life that he chose to define himself with.

 _Look out for_ _Sam_ and _Make_ _Dad_ _proud_.

Sure, Dean had things he enjoyed. A pretty lady. A good meal. Ganking an evil son of a bitch. But these pleasures always took a backseat to the two primal needs.

 _Always_.

Their entire lives, Dean had saved Sam's ass, literally and figuratively, more times that Sam could ever count or repay. And he was doing it again right now. While Sam ran like a coward to the diner to meekly fetch food, Dean was taking a bruising to his ears and his ego, allowing their father to rage over his brother's perceived failures and taking a chunk out of Dean's self respect in the process.

Sam hated his father for never hesitating to belittle Dean for his failures, hated Dean for his constant willingness to be made less than, and hated himself most of all for doing nothing to stop it.

Sure enough, by the time Sam returned to their room, laden down with more styrofoam containing enough animal products to horrify PETA, his father and brother were sitting at the kitchenette table in silence. John bent, as usual, over his never ending pile of research materials and Dean scooping up large bites of cherry pie in his mouth.

Outwardly, his brother looked fine, casually leaning back in his chair while he ate, throwing Sam a smirk as he dumped the bags on the table. But there was a tightness to Dean's eyes that only an adoring little brother could detect, a sagging of his broad shoulders that screamed proof that Dad had torn a strip off of Dean's confidence.

Tomorrow, Sam would beg a ride to the local library. Hopefully to use their computer where he could surreptitiously begin a research project of his own. He had one last year in high school to do what he could to earn a place at a university, where he could leave this world of hurt, blood and pain behind.

He was getting out.


	3. July 2000

Ultimately, it's the conversation with Jim Murphy that really convinces Dean that they are in danger of losing Sam.

Dean ended the call and tossed his cell onto the empty seat next to him. Like a balm on burned skin, he enjoyed his sporadic conversations with Sonny. The kind hearted ex-con was one of the few civilians that had earned Dean's respect over the years, and was important enough to Dean that he always made sure that his former caretaker had a current number to call.

Whether for help, or just to shoot the breeze and catch up.

So far Sonny had never needed to send out the bat signal for their particular brand of assistance, for which Dean was grateful, not wanting the boys at the home to ever have to deal with any of the Winchesters' usual playmates. Despite the fact that Sonny had always been supportive in his own way, Dean was reasonably sure that his old friend didn't actually believe in any of the supernatural stuff anyway.

Which was fine. Sometimes it was nice to just make conversation with someone who cared, without having to talk shop.

Dean didn't share these conversations with either his father or brother. Not that he was under any delusions about Dad's ignorance of them. John Winchester was always laser focused on any outside influences on his boys, which was why despite being raised in the life, his kids knew very few other hunters.

Dean was positive that there was no way his father didn't know about the occasional calls on his cell either to or from the area code where he had left his firstborn for two months.

Anyone who thought that John hadn't spent those two months hovering in the near vicinity of Hurleyville, tense as a predator ready to pounce, while he taught his son a lesson on money management, responsibility and _not fucking getting caught_ , didn't know Dean's father.

 _At all._

And Dean had wanted to stay. Wanted it like he had never really wanted anything else besides having his mother back. For the first time since... _ever_...Dean had been given a reprieve from the heavy responsibility of his little brother's care.

Sure, he felt guilty about thinking like that. Guilty in a way that had torn at him enough to make him puke his guts out when he let himself feel it completely. In the darkness of the bunk room, lying awake in his warded bed among the other boys, Dean's mind had warred with frenzied worry over where Sammy was at the moment.

Was he with Dad? With Uncle Bobby? Or one of their other occasional guardians? Was he alone in a motel room, sick with worry about where his father and brother were? Was he safe? Was he hurt? Was he hungry?

Did he even miss Dean at all?

In the break of day, the sunlight chasing away the dark shadows that plagued him, Dean could push his lingering fears to the back of his mind. There was work to be done on the farm, and he found himself enjoying physical exertion that didn't involve his continuing education into becoming a trained killer.

Even at school he was able to relax, without the near constant hyper vigilance of being alert for any threat to his little brother's safety in a strange place. Dean knew he could handle himself, so he didn't worry for his own safety. Didn't have that ever present tension that took his focus away from lectures and assignments.

He did well in school there. Not just well, but _flourished_. For the first time he actually got what always had his little brother so enthused about education. Math and Sciences had always come easy to him, and Dean soared to the tops of his classes. For once getting praise for his academic endeavors, instead of dismissal.

He loved being on the wrestling team and sparring just for fun, and no other reason. Making friends with the other boys on his team who saw his strength as an asset. Not something to be scared of, like the students at the dozens of schools he had attended had always viewed the new kid, subconsciously moving out of the way as Dean strode by.

He loved walking down the hallway with his arm around Robin. Spending the evenings after dinner and chores with her on the couch in Sonny's living room. Her long slender fingers softly strumming the guitar strings as she sang painfully beautiful ballads in her gently lilting voice.

Sonny had reminded Dean a lot of his father, and maybe that's why he had taken a shine to him initially. Like his dad, Sonny was a flawed man, with violence in his past. Although the two of them might have chosen different paths to deal with that, Dean saw that each of them worked hard to save people, leaving the world a little better place than it would be without them.

When Dad had eventually returned to retrieve him, finally ready to bestow the largesse of his forgiveness on his wayward son, Dean had wanted to stay ensconced in his new found life. A life where he could just be a stupid high school kid, with no greater worries than exams and acne.

But one look out the window, seeing his kid brother in the backseat of the Impala, young, vulnerable, and already at constant odds with their father, and Dean knew there was no choice at all.

So, even now years later, Dean didn't make his friendship with Sonny obvious. To this day, Sammy didn't know the real story behind his big brother's absence during that time, and as far as Dean was concerned, he would never know. He would never admit to his little brother that there had been a time when he contemplated abandoning him, regardless of how incredibly brief that thought had been.

Dean would never randomly confess to Sam that his gung-ho hunter of a brother had once wanted normalcy too. Not that Dean wouldn't admit it, if he was asked directly.

He might not care and share every aspect of his life with his family, but he wouldn't lie to them either.

It was actually hard for Dean to hold back information from the other Winchesters. Unlike his father and brother, he didn't keep many secrets from them. Dad had always kept his boys on a need-to-know basis, and Dean accepted it. He didn't like it, but he accepted it as part of the way his father ran things. Dad was the C.O. of the Winchester Army. Dean and Sam only grunts who were expected to fall in line and do as they were told.

Whatever it took to get the job done.

As for Sam, the older the younger Winchester brother grew, the more he looked, sounded and acted like their father. In fact, most of the time these days, Dean often wondered why his parents hadn't named his little brother _John Winchester, Junior,_ and have just been done with it.

Sammy rebelled against learning everything their father tried to teach them regularly, but on the subject of keeping secrets, Dean's little brother was becoming a master, second only to John himself.

And didn't that just figure.

It was Sam's stubborn nature that was responsible for the empty seat in Dean's car right now. After a dozen arguments between his father and brother over Sam's enthusiasm, or more specifically his lack thereof, helping them research the last hunt, Dad had decided that Sam needed a refresher course on responsibility, professionalism and chain of command.

Normally Dean would have tried to intervene, if only because he didn't want to be the one dealing with a pissy Sammy after the kid had spent the morning cooped up in the pickup truck while Dad gave him the Hunter's Riot Act. More than once, after arriving at their destination following one of these _pep talks_ , Sam would storm out of the truck, spitting nails and spoiling for a fight, usually with Dean as the nearest available target.

But Sammy had been acting a little more squirrely lately. More secretive and jumpy, and Dean was all out of patience with the kid these days too. Not that his little brother didn't have a few valid points. Dad was driven, no doubt, and military disciplined in a way that his sons, having never been to war themselves, were not quite at the level yet.

That didn't mean that the whiny emo bitch didn't need to be taken down a peg or two at times. As anyone in their immediate acquaintance could attest, having been given front row seats to the long running Broadway performance of _101 Reasons Why My Life Sucks Out Loud by Little Sammy Winchester_.

Dean could see the figures of his father and brother ahead of him in the truck's cab as they drove along the interstate towards Blue Earth. Every once in a while, John's right hand would make a jabbing motion in the air, signaling what Dean knew to be his dad's emphasis on a particular lesson he was trying to impart. In the passenger seat, Sam sat, usually facing away from their father, his shoulders stiffening and slumping in equal measures.

 _Peachy_ , Dean thought to himself, already resigned to the upcoming in-person bitchfest. _Just peachy_.

He didn't have long to wait after he ended his call with Sonny. Less than thirty minutes later, Dad turned off the main road and headed towards the parking lot of a little greasy spoon with a sign out front that promised _Real Home Cooking_.

The more sketchy places always tried to use warm and fuzzy descriptors to entice unsuspecting travelers into their dining rooms, only to offer mediocre fare that has spent too much time under warming lights, and the tired, grudging service of wait staff who would rather not be bothered.

Dean had done some _Real Home Cooking_ in his life as well. But just because the Mac & Cheese with Marshmallow Fluff had been cooked in their 'home', it didn't mean that anyone besides his weird little brother should want to eat it.

Sam had already hopped out of the truck by the time Dean swung the Impala into an empty space a few cars away. Grabbing his cellphone from the seat at he exited his sweet ride, he saw his father standing hunched at his little brother's side. Dad was leaning close to Sam's ear and talking low, a cautionary hand on the back of his brothers neck, and Dean inhaled a deep sigh because their conversation was clearly going to spill over into the restaurant.

Inside they are shown to a round booth towards the back at John's request. He sits first and Dean slides in after him, attempting to put a little distance between his father and brother, at least for as long as their late breakfast can last. Sammy reluctantly follows, slinking into the booth next to Dean and ignoring the menus that have been plopped down in front of them.

"Two coffees, for us," Dad orders, indicating himself and Dean, "and orange juice for him," he finishes, nodding towards Sam.

The waitress says nothing as she jots it down on her pad, and is already trotting towards the kitchen before Sam can object or correct her. Instead he glowers at the table in front of him, and Dean can feel his brother's body tense next to his.

John's eyebrows are drawn together in annoyance as he stares at his scowling son. He begins to form a sharp rebuke and then stops himself, already weary after an entire morning in the truck lecturing the kid.

"You've been drinking nothing but coffee all morning, kiddo," he reminds Sam, in a voice that while not exactly gentle, is at least calmer than Dean expected. "It's a researching evening, not an overnight stakeout."

Sam doesn't respond, either out of petulance or anger. Either way, Dean is grateful for the lack of complaint that would ignite the powder keg he is sitting between. When the waitress comes back with the drinks, Sam ignores the juice, as well as everybody else, as he chews the nail of his pinkie finger. A habit Dean has been trying to break him of since he was six years old.

To lessen the tension, Dean turns on his fullest megawatt smile as he orders his usual greasy bacon cheeseburger and artery clogging chili cheese fries, cocking a playful smile at his father which stops John from immediately protesting.

"Shortstack and a veggie omelet," John orders, gifting the tired waitress with a smile of his own before turning indulgently to his younger son.

He's not exactly feeling guilty about ordering the juice, but he'll put extra effort into into calling a ceasefire with his kid.

"What do you want, kiddo?"

"Not hungry," Sam mutters, pushing the menu away, slumping further into the back cushion of the booth.

John takes a deep breath and frowns, counts to ten in his head.

"He'll have what I'm having," he says firmly, ignoring the huff from his youngest as he gathers the menus together and hands them back to the their server.

John's patience with his children is rapidly slipping.

"And _he_ will have a side of steamed broccoli with his heart attack special," the perturbed father continues, indicating Dean, whose head jerks up in surprise. "Thank you, sweetheart."

The waitress says nothing as she adds the last order to her pad, used to bickering families with moody teenagers. She grabs the menus, warms up the coffees and darts off again leaving the uncomfortable atmosphere of the round booth in her wake.

"What did _I_ do?" Dean asks, indignantly, but is quickly silenced by his father's dark frown.

"I thought I told you to stow that attitude outside, Sammy," John rumbles darkly.

Dean closes his eyes in resignation because he hasn't even had half a cup of coffee yet, shit is already starting, and now he has to eat rabbit food.

"Why?" Sam snaps, sharp enough to be heard by the couple in the booth next to them. "Because I'm capable of ordering my own beverage? Because I don't want to eat whatever science experiment they're growing in this place?"

"You mind your tone, boy," John growls, pointing his finger at his mouthy son to impart the message that a line is being crossed. His boys haven't been raised to be disrespectful. "We've already had this discussion once, today."

"So it's a crime now to avoid salmonella?" Sam persists, every bit as stubborn as his father.

John is now leaning halfway across into Dean's personal space, and the murderous look in his eyes promises nothing good for the youngest Winchester.

"If I tell you it's time to eat, _you eat_ ," John says sharply. "We aren't going to descend on Pastor Jim like a plague of locusts and eat him out of house and home."

John's eyes are dark and snapping as he stares down his youngest, and when Sam doesn't capitulate, he ups the ante.

"Maybe you need a reminder of respect for my orders and appropriate behavior when we're guests in someone's house?"

Sitting in the eye of this approaching storm, Dean sighs and realizes that whatever has been said in the truck is about to come to a head in this small diner, and they don't need this kind of attention. Well experienced in the role of the Winchester family cooler, he decides it's time for the tried and true method of distract/deflect/diverge.

Bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub his eyes, he groans pitifully.

"Could you guys knock it off for a while, please? My freakin' head is killing me." _Distract_

John is still glaring daggers at his youngest, but the underlying current of misery in Dean's voice catches his attention and his fatherly instinct kicks in, overtaking his annoyance.

"What's the matter with your head, kiddo?" John asks, shooting one more heated glance at Sam before taking in the pained expression on his older son's face.

"Honestly, Dad?" Dean responds, rubbing his face again and gearing himself up for an award winning performance. "Too many beers last night while I was hustling." _Deflect_

As Dean intends, his father immediately launches into a scathing tirade.

" _What_?" John demands, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and worry as he turns his full attention to his eldest. "You know better than that, Dean! You know better than to let your attention to your surroundings get too impaired when you hustle."

"I know, Dad," Dean mumbles, eyes cast down with just the right balance of shame and guilt. "The mark had a sober friend. He was watching my intake. I just lost count. 'M sorry."

Dean lets his father fume for another few seconds before he rubs his temples. Eventually, his dad's protective side wins out, and the dressing down is over. Before John's attention can get refocused on his little brother, Dean makes a preemptive strike of the ultimate sacrifice.

"Would you mind if Sammy drives the Impala the rest of the way?" he asks his father as he squints from phantom head pain. "I could really use a nap." _Diverge_

The request takes John aback, because he has seen his son drive the car while bleeding all over the black leather seat. Dean is either seriously feeling ill, or he is trying that desperately to keep the peace. Not particularly fooled, John nods his consent because he's not actually in the mood for more confrontation with his youngest either.

"Sammy, go get your brother some Tylenol out of the truck," he orders, going along with the ruse.

While Sam darts outside, Dean squirms because he's pretty sure he's about to get called out, but John just drinks his coffee and pulls out his journal, ignoring his son's discomfort. He doesn't say anything to Dean until Sam is back with the pill bottle, instructing Dean to take two and watching as his oldest swallows them down before returning to his notes.

Dean notices that Sam is trying very hard to suppress his excitement over the prospect of driving and getting away from their father for a few hours, but he feels the affectionate nudge Sam's knee gives his own under the table, thanking him for defusing the argument.

When the food comes, Dean is starving and salivating, but he knows that his father will call bullshit on his inability to drive if he tears into his meal. He forces himself to pick at the awesome smelling burger, even though he wants to devour it, the fries and, possibly, the plate.

Grumpy, he scowls at the small dish of broccoli until inspiration strikes.

"I'm gonna get this all to go, okay Dad?"

John doesn't allow his kids to waste food, and Dean knows it. He can wait until his father and brother finish their meals, and then he will inhale his own in the comfort of his car. The broccoli can have an unfortunate accident with a trash can when they get to Pastor Jim's.

John doesn't even look up from his plate, running a large forkful of pancakes through the puddle of syrup.

"Sure thing, kiddo." _Pause_ "Eat the broccoli, and we'll box up the rest for you later."

Dean's eyes go wide with surprise, only to be met with his father's knowing stare as he realizes that he is busted. Resigned, he pulls the dish of limp green vegetables towards him and obediently chokes it down.

 _Sonofabitch_

In the end it's worth it when he sees his little brother digging into his own food, his earlier aversion to eating gone.

 _/_

They're back on the road twenty minutes later, John leading in the Sierra as Sam carefully cruises behind at the Impala's wheel. As soon as they pull out of the parking lot, Dean rips open the to-go bag and snorkels his way through his delayed lunch.

"Thanks."

Dean looks up from his burger and Sam is smiling gratefully at him.

"You _so_ owe me, bitch," he says around a mouthful of fries. "Eyes on the road."

Sam laughs, a carefree happy sound, relaxed for the first time since they woke up this morning and he was forced to spend hours captive while his father lectured. It's not that he's not used to his father pointing out his many inadequacies as a hunter. To Sam, it feels like he's been disappointing his father for years.

Dean has always been the perfect son. Attentive, responsible, respectful and obedient. And still their father is critical and hard on him. So if that's what John thinks of his good soldier, what could he possibly really think about Sam?

He gets jealous sometimes. Really he does. Because he and his father don't actually have a lot of common ground or mutual interests. Dad and Dean have always been their own little two man team, happy to spend hours together handling weapons, working on the cars, running, hunting, shooting, sparring.

It's enough to make Sam feel like the Odd Man Out most of the time. He will never feel the call of their life as it is. He just doesn't have the taste for it. Never will. He only slows them down with his disinterest and lesser skill.

They will be better off without him when he leaves. He's sure of it.

Dean looks up from his burger long enough to suss out the fallout from Sam and Dad's latest entanglement.

"How much trouble are you in?"

Sam's mouth twists into a frown and his eyes narrow briefly, his father's dressing down reverberating in his head.

"Double our cardio drill for a week. And I have to field strip and clean the entire arsenal tonight."

Dean lets out a low whistle, because that's harsh, even for Dad. He contemplates what to say that won't get Sam's back up further or undermine their father's authority over them. Either way, he would be screwed, so in the end he just gives his brother a sympathetic smile.

"Sorry, kiddo."

Sam shrugs, because that's just his life. As much as he wants to rail and scream right now, he won't. His brother has already gone the distance to separate him from Dad. Dean will probably also let him get off easily with the drills, since Dad will make him count Sam out. He might even help Sam with the guns if Dad is too distracted to notice.

Dean has demolished his food in record time, finally leaning back in the seat, surprisingly relaxed, even though Sam knows it's killing him that someone else is driving. To keep his brother's mind occupied, he suggests a game of 'I Spy' to pass the time.

They haven't played the game in a while, and the idea pleases Dean in a way that Sam doesn't really understand. They've spent a million hours passing away the miles engaged in distractions like this, two restless boys trapped in a car with only a preoccupied father and each other for company.

Sam had always assumed it was for his benefit. A way to busy a chatty little brother without annoying their dad with endless questions that didn't always have a happy answer. Once he was older, Sam began to bury his nose in a book for the long drives, releasing his big brother from the chore of entertaining him.

Now he wonders who the games were for.

As they cruise down the two lane asphalt, they play. And if Dean is stretching the rules using an unfair advantage of automotive knowledge, Sam doesn't call him on it. He's got things on his mind, and wants his brother in a good mood when they talk about it.

"D'you think Dad would let me spend the school year with Pastor Jim?"

Dean's head snaps back like he's been slapped, and his eyes blink rapidly. He throws his brother a disbelieving look, trying to figure out whether or not the kid is serious.

"Okay, Random. Where did _that_ come from?"

Sam grips the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles going white as he shrugs.

"I dunno," he answers, attempting to be casual and failing. "It's just a thought. Might make it easier to hunt if he didn't have to worry about dragging me from school to school."

Dean snorts and shakes his head. Seriously. This kid.

"I'm sorry. Have you met our father?"

Sam doesn't have to look to know that his brother is giving him the 'my brother got dropped on his head as a baby _..._ _r_ _epeatedly..._ ' stare.

"Sammy, Dad isn't going to leave us behind at Pastor Jim's. Or Bobby's. Or Caleb's. Or anybody else's place," Dean reminds him, attempting to be reasonable and gentle in the face of his little brother's obvious dumbness today.

There is a slight hesitation as Sam's mouth puckers into a frown, hands tightening even more into the stranglehold he has on the wheel.

"Not _us_ , Dean," he says quietly, avoiding his brother's shocked face. "Just me."

A rising tide of hurt edges up in Dean's throat for the briefest of seconds before he manages to choke it back down. He takes a beat in an attempt to convince himself that Sam didn't mean that like it sounded.

"Just you?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice calm.

Sam risks a quick peek at his brother's face, but Dean is staring straight ahead to the road, revealing nothing.

"Eyes on the road, Sam."

Sam snaps his attention back to his father's truck ahead of them and clears his throat, knowing that without Dean on his side, he'll never convince his father to leave him behind. He needs this. No decent school will give him a shot if he can't stabilize his school records.

"Dad needs you to keep hunting with him," Sam begins, trying to sound reasonable while he exploits one of his brother's weaknesses. "And I'm not a kid anymore. You don't need to stay behind and watch me all the time. It's not fair to you."

For his own peace of mind, Dean chooses to believe that that is what Sam meant. That it's his concern for his big brother's happiness that has him thinking about being left behind alone, and not because he wants to distance himself from Dean as much as from their father.

The alternative is too painful to contemplate. Especially since Dean himself had more than once chosen family over personal desires.

"There's no way Dad will leave you behind that long anywhere without me, Sam," Dean replies, unwilling to expound further into territory that might be harmful to their brotherhood.

There's truth and finality to Dean's simple statement of fact. Sam knows it. He may not want to admit it, but he knows it. For a brief second, his hopes and plans slip a little further from his grasp, but he subconsciously racks his shoulders back as he begins to ponder other alternatives.

Engrossed in his own thoughts, he doesn't realize that his brother sees his tell, Dean's mouth stretching into a grim line as he turns away to stare off into the distance.

/

They don't speak until Dad signals for them to pull over for a restroom break. Aside from a quick question about the state of Dean's fake headache, their father doesn't say much either, and he also doesn't demand Sam's return to the truck. So Dean slides back behind the wheel with Sammy as reluctant shotgun.

Approaching the exit for Blue Earth, Minnesota, Dean catches a glimpse of the hulking, whimsical statue coming into his view. A familiar sight since childhood, he can't help the corny jingle that came unbidden into his mind.

Too many hours left alone to their own devices in motel rooms, with an inquisitive little brother that literally never shut the hell up. So sue him. Sometimes the television was the device of last resort for a kid who just needed a few moments of peace from the constant chattering of an overactive little brother.

 _Up in the valley of the Jolly Green Giant…_

Over and over again, the commercial for canned vegetables would play between episodes of Thundercats and every other ridiculous program that Sammy could be persuaded to watch and give his big brother two solid minutes of peace between the endless questions.

Dean had dreaded seeing it start, knowing that his little brother would begin to squeal in delight, expecting Pastor Jim to walk through the door, only to be disappointed when Dean had to remind him that they were far from the actual statue that resided in Blue Earth.

Sitting in the passenger seat, oblivious to their surroundings, Sammy's nose was deep in a book as they drove, their previous discussion long discarded.

His current choice was _The Old Man and the Sea_ , and Dean had rolled his eyes when seeing it pulled from his kid brother's slightly ratty backpack. Another selection from the long established tradition that the little geek imposed his own reading list for the summer.

As if their father didn't already have them reading a metric fuck ton of lore books in the first place.

For some reason, Sam seemed to be on a Hemingway kick this summer, and Dean made a mental note to find a book store in town while they were visiting. If the kid insisted on wearing his eyes out by age eighteen, it was time to introduce the boy to some real reading material, like Vonnegut.

The looming green figure was growing larger as he followed his dad's black Sierra towards one of the few places they had actually spent significant time in growing up. As children, Pastor Jim's rectory had been almost as much a home as the Impala. and both the Winchester brothers had fond memories of their stays there.

The large, leaf toga wearing man had always been a gatekeeper of sorts.

A sign that they were minutes away from the neat and cozy rectory, with its soft beds that were always crisp and clean smelling. A casserole unfailingly bubbling in the oven made by one of the many church ladies who had deemed it their Christian duty to keep Pastor Jim's waistline expanding. The rec room with its numerous shelves filled with toys and games occupying restless children after services.

Dean couldn't help the smirk on his face as they drove past the visitors entrance, the twinkle in his eyes a combination of happy childhood nostalgia and the mirth of youthful indiscretion.

 _Four Years Ago…._

Dean was seventeen and feeling his oats.

Along with Sam, he had been left behind at Jim's, while their father and Caleb, one of the few other hunters John trusted, set off in pursuit of a Vetala in the area near the Florida Everglades. Expecting to be gone a couple of weeks, hunting a monster that preferred young men as prey, John had once again entrusted his sons to his old friend, firmly forbidding his oldest from joining him.

Dean's bruised pride had him mouthing off to John and questioning orders. An occurrence even more rare than Sammy agreeing to move without throwing a tantrum.

Hurt by what he perceived to be his father's lack of faith in his blossoming hunting skills, Dean had lashed out in an unprecedented way and, as a result, found himself grounded for the duration of his father's absence. Sentenced to attend Pastor Jim's evening bible study classes and his driving privileges revoked.

John and Caleb were taking Caleb's much more utilitarian Jeep in case their chase took them into less forgiving marshy terrain, leaving the Impala, jet black and gleaming, to sit in Jim's side yard, mocking Dean's inability to drive her anywhere.

It didn't help his mood that Sammy, the little suck up, was more than willing to sit through bible study, happy to spend evenings around normal people doing normal things, and reasoning that the Good Book was a huge resource for obscure lore that might come in handy some day.

Dean had been practically spitting fire when his little brother made that pronouncement. Sam had to be dragged by his floppy hair kicking and screaming to do research normally. The little bitch was trying to get under his skin on purpose and, for once, Dean felt like punching his brother.

But it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter.

Faced with his father's abandonment and his little brother's _holier than thou_ attitude, Dean was grudgingly dragged into the community hall after dinner that first night, horrified when the vacant seat to his right was suddenly occupied by a stout middle aged woman with hair shaped like a football helmet, an odor of overcooked cabbage clinging to her like incense, and judgment in her eyes.

For two evenings in a row, Dean slumped dejectedly in his chair. Sammy chipper and curious to his left, and Cabbage Lady to his right making pointed insulting remarks under her breath and throwing him the occasional glare that clearly stated that Dean's spirituality was sorely lacking.

Dean hated religious hypocrites.

If it hadn't been for his long time affection and healthy respect for the good Pastor, he would have told Helmet Head to cram it where the sun don't shine but, as it was, Jim was a good friend of their father's and had always been unfailingly kind to both of the Winchester boys, so he kept his mouth shut.

It was on the third evening that everything changed.

As the boys walked across the parking lot towards the community hall after dinner, Pastor Jim had informed them that it was Youth Night and, with a poorly concealed smile, had hinted that they might have a few surprises waiting for them inside. Surprised they were.

On more than one occasion, the boys had been left with Jim for long periods of time. Enough time to meet and get casually friendly with some of the local kids. One stay had even involved them being enrolled in the local school for a few months when Dean was thirteen and John had been banged up enough to need real bed rest.

It had been the one other time that Dean had been reluctant to leave a school and join their father back on the road until his time at Sonny's place.

Sam had no trouble recognizing some old friends from that stay, and he hadn't even bothered to say goodbye to Dean and Jim before sprinting off to join them. Dean had been more relieved than hurt by his brother's quick abandonment because although he loved Sammy, the kid was really getting on his nerves lately.

Dean had made friends, good friends, for the first time. They were troubled kids from dysfunctional homes, but considering how Dean and his family lived, he never looked down on them with the typical disdain that most of the upper middle class community had. With Sammy well watched at Jim's house, Dean had finally felt a few moments of breathing space where he could just be a kid, and the ragtag bunch of social outsiders had embraced him as one of their own.

Now, stepping into the side meeting room where the evening's attendees of his age group were assembling, a warm wave of nostalgia washed over him as he slowly identified the maturing faces of old friends. Recognizing Dean immediately, they came barreling towards him, shoving and punching him like most guys that age do in greeting each other and, happier now, he felt some of the weight lifted from his head as they started catching up.

Renny, the unofficial leader, had a wad of cash in his pocket, proudly telling Dean that he ran _errands_ for a local drug dealer. At seventeen, he was paying his mother's rent, and for the first time in years, they weren't on the verge of being evicted. Dean was sad that this was the direction he was choosing to go because Renny was smart, _Sammy_ smart, and with a little encouragement from his alcoholic mom or a teacher that gave just a little damn, he could go places.

RJ's older brother was now at Duke with a full athletic scholarship and you could see the pride in RJ's eyes as he told Dean about it. RJ was going to try for one too, and Dean got the impression that his days hanging out with the others might be numbered.

Dennis was a good natured stoner, who kept everyone laughing with his weird humor and willingness to make an ass of himself. Dennis was a perpetual foster kid, in and out of group homes. He had a kind heart and never said a bad thing about anyone. He spent time at Jim's because it kept him from getting beat on at his current group home, and the food was good. Feeling protective, Dean made a mental note to pay a visit to Dennis' tormentors.

The sixteen to eighteen age group was theoretically being led by Ms. Purvis, a woman who owned the local flower shop, dressed in twin sets and pearls, and had a nose that was permanently raised in the air. Renny assured Dean that she really only came for the gossip. After passing out worksheets that she never collected, she abandoned their group for coffee and pastry in the community hall kitchen with the other women.

Shutting the door and cranking open a side window, Dennis threw Dean half a pack of Kools and he shook one out, lighting it up and taking a drag. He coughed a little, because it had been forever since his last one, and the boys laughed like crazy at him.

Under his father's watchful eye, Dean could never allow himself to become addicted to them, and if it had been Sammy lighting up, he would have wrung the kid's neck. It was a social thing more or less. Dean didn't really like cigarettes. They tasted awful and interfered with his running. You couldn't run from Wendigos with lungs full of black tar.

Besides, it's not like he could hide it once Dad got back. John could smell it on his kid ten blocks away and had once threatened to make Dean smoke an entire pack in one shot if he ever caught his oldest having another one. But Dad was in Florida. Without Dean. So screw him.

Finally relaxed and enjoying himself, Dean was lounging on the chair closest to the storage closet, his stomach a little queasy from too much tuna noodle casserole and nicotine, so he was taking small sips of a Pepsi grabbed from the main hall's buffet table, hoping that it would keep him from puking in front of his friends.

There was a small group of latecomers making their way through the door and Renny jumped up and trotted over to meet them. Smiling like a fox, he threw an arm around a petite blonde, another girl following them closely.

The girl standing slightly behind Renny was the closest thing to perfection Dean's seventeen year old eyes had ever seen.

Swirls of long black hair snaking their way down her low cut shirt, giving just a peek of the swell of her perky breasts. Her shirt was tucked into skin tight black jeans that emphasized all the curves in all the right places, and he felt his groin ache and his breath catch.

But it was her eyes that did him in. Ice blue and shining with mischief, he couldn't stop leering at her like some sick perv in a trench coat.

She giggled, showing small even white teeth inside her rosebud red lips, shiny with gloss, and Dean was sure his face blushed nine shades of crimson from getting caught when she winked at him. The other guys were snickering at his obvious infatuation and general dumbness, but she didn't seem to pay any attention to them. She just kept smiling as she slowly walked over with the strangest look on her face.

Almost amused and expectant, she stood directly in front of him, like there was a joke being shared that Dean wasn't in on, and he practically had a heart attack when she parted her legs, straddled his hips and sat down on his lap. She leaned over slowly, giving him ringside seats for ogling her full round breasts, and he could smell a mix of ocean and rain coming off of her. It was intoxicating.

"Long time no see, stranger," she whispered, her breath sending a warm wave of air into his ear, brushing her lips against Dean's left cheek before nipping his earlobe.

 _Jesus. Christ._

Being a guy that age is hard enough when you're just sitting in class. Your trouser snake was regularly possessed by the devil, doing whatever it wanted, whenever it wanted, on a _good_ day. Right then, Dean's was already painfully trying to escape his jeans, and the ear bite didn't help.

He was counting backwards, wordlessly reciting the Latin alphabet, mentally reviewing the entire White Sox roster, and going over Trig homework from his last school in an effort to not explode like Old Faithful and completely humiliate himself.

She clearly sensed his struggle and laughed again, moving her hips slowly to press harder against him. Dean was losing the battle, squeezing his eyes tightly in an effort to think of something, anything, that would take his attention away from this beautiful and sadistic creature currently killing him.

A fleeting thought of the influence of Sirens got distractedly discarded by an especially insistent thrust of her hips.

She leaned over closely again and nuzzled his ear. Her breath warm and moist, and Dean groaned as he felt his resistance slipping.

"Don't you remember me, Dean?"

The question surprised him because who could possibly forget perfection? So he opened his eyes with his mental focus thankfully redeployed as he searched her face for some recognizable trait.

She pulled back slightly and Dean scrutinized every feature of her with not even a tiny clue, which made his hunter-in-training brain absolutely crazy. She made a fake pouting face, those perfectly kissable lips pursed and glossy, while the guys laughed at both his confusion and his aching groin, but he had nothing.

Just as he was about to tell them off for messing with him, she reached up and began twirling a lock of her hair with her right index finger, rattling an old memory from the dusty back corners of his memory.

"Beth?"

It couldn't be. But just as sure as Dean knew his own name, he knew it was her. She giggled again, clearly pleased that he had finally placed her, and she leaned over once more and kissed him gently on the mouth.

Her lips tasted like strawberries.

"Good boy," she praised in a quiet breathy voice as she slowly climbed off of his lap.

He sat up straighter in the chair, attempting to discreetly adjust himself as she starting talking with the other guys. Face flushed and head was spinning, he blinked his eyes in confusion because this was definitely not the Beth that he remembered.

They had met the summer Dean was twelve, once again temporarily in Blue Earth while John took a few of the more dangerous hunts, comfortable that his sons were safe and protected. Thrown together at Jim's vacation bible school and assigned to be study buddies because her last name was alphabetically ahead of his on the attendance roll.

She was a tomboy then. Straight angles, skinned knees and hair always in a messy ponytail. Her second hand clothes often had small stains either from the previous owner or because Beth could get down and dirty at play as good as any boy in school. Her mom liked to drink. Her dad was gone. Mom had lots of boyfriends, and sometimes they hit her. Sometimes they hit Beth too.

Beth came to bible school cut and bruised on several occasions, and Dean once overheard one church mom tell another that it was probably the reason Beth played so aggressively, so that she could blame rough housing for the abuse she was getting at home. He remembered being angry about that. That these good, Christian women could gossip about an abused child, but not act to help her.

Dean's protective nature had him itching for payback to whoever was hurting her, even at only twelve years old. He knew hand to hand combat already. Could handle knives and a shotgun too if he needed to. But he couldn't risk getting into trouble when Sammy still needed his protection more.

He wasn't entirely helpless. Because Dean's charm also worked on reformed and faithful clergymen, Beth was often invited to spend time at the rectory, away from booze addled mothers and abusive boyfriends, and for a while the bruises and cuts were fewer and farther between.

Dean hadn't seen Beth since that summer. A few months later at Christmas, Sammy would find Dad's journal in their seedy motel room in Broken Bow. With the innocence of his younger son shattered, John had decided to regularly start bringing the boys along on hunts instead of parking them in Blue Earth every few months.

Until the next year.

With Dad recovering from a bad encounter with a rawhead, Dean had looked for her at school, but a change of address had her zoned elsewhere. Then they had been on their way again, and sadly, Dean hadn't really thought anymore about her.

He was thinking about her now though.

She was a fully developed seventeen year old girl, and he couldn't take his eyes off of her as she moved around the room with the fluid ease of someone confident in their own skin. The guys laughed at his obvious infatuation, having fun at his expense, but he didn't care. They could tease him all they wanted, but he couldn't stop staring.

She knew he was watching too and she liked it, purposely brushing up against him as she walked around, giving him birds eye views of both her amazing breasts and voluptuous ass straining the seams of those tight jeans.

Not that Dean was complaining. It was like having his birthday, Christmas, the Fourth of July and a perfect werewolf hunt all rolled up into one ocean breeze scented package.

He completely tuned out any effort at conversation from the other guys and, to their credit, they picked up wing man duty like pros, leaving him free to gawk and lust. Beth sat down in a chair facing him, her legs crossed and her right foot swinging slowly in high heeled boots.

She didn't say anything to Dean, just stared intently, a little smile on those beautiful lips, her ice blue eyes dancing with excitement, or danger, or lust. He don't know. Dean was proud of his good looks, used getting his share of admiring glances, but her attention had him feeling like a pimple faced kid freshman.

She stood up after awhile and stretched cat-like, flipping her hair back and causing her shirt to pull tighter across her chest.

"I want candy," she purred at Dean and he immediately jumped to his feet to be of service.

"I'll go out and grab you some," he gushed at her. There were always various and sundry snacks on the table in the main hall, and if he had a tail, this is the part where he would be wagging it.

She smiled at him, biting her bottom lip in a way that was both adorable and dirty in equal measures, and the ache in his groin came running back at lightening speed.

"Not the candy out front," she objected, her mouth curling into a small pout. "That's just the cheap stuff that the mothers try to get rid off."

"Okay," he agreed quickly, ready to run to freakin' Hershey, PA itself if she wanted him to. "I'll go find a store. What kind should I get?"

She strolled slowly over to Dean, her mouth still beautifully pouting, and took his hand.

"There's chocolate in the storage room," she purred. "Pastor Jim saves it for the youth meetings after Sunday services. He won't mind if we help ourselves. But it's up on a high shelf and I can't reach it."

Dean knew every inch of the grounds and didn't remember ever coming across a candy stash. He would have clearly made note of that. Couldn't remember an after services candy grab either, but he was so entranced by her that he wasn't thinking clearly.

He also didn't hear the other guys laughing and, honestly, they could have been doing stand up comedy for all he knew. Beth easily led him to the storage room door and he was prepared to climb a shelf, build a scaffold or fight an angry spirit to make sure she got what she wanted.

She pulled him inside and snapped on a light switch next to the door. The light had only one dim bulb that buzzed pathetically like any second of use could be its last, casting a faint shadow over a small, cramped room that had almost nothing on its shelves and smelled like disinfectant.

She shrugged her shoulders at his look of confusion, not appearing to be too put out.

"No candy," she said, with no hint of sadness in her voice as she pulled Dean towards her.

Slowly she backed up against a wall, snaking her arms around his neck and pulling his face down to meet hers. Her lips parted and Dean dove right in to the softness of her mouth, completely oblivious now to anything but the electrical sensation of her curious tongue.

It could have been five minutes or it could have been five years. Dean lost all track of time and his surroundings as he surrendered himself to her kisses.

Moving more confidently than she probably should have, Beth grabbed his right hand in her left one and guided it first under her shirt, and then under one lacy cup of her bra, allowing him explore the soft flesh of her warm breast. She put her other hand down the back of Dean's pants and under his boxers, grabbed his ass and squeezed hard, and he moaned deep in his throat with heady thoughts of how they just got to second base without him at the wheel.

He kind of liked her take charge attitude.

In Dean's blissful state he didn't even notice the door being flung open, and it wasn't until someone grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and roughly pulled him away from her that he even realized what was going on. One minute he was in heaven, and then the very next he was staring directly into the furious face of twin set and pearl wearing Ms. Purvis.

Without hesitation, he was frog marched directly to Pastor Jim, Ms. Purvis' preachy diatribe of troublemaking sinners taking advantage of good Christian girls ringing in his ears. Jim had been surprisingly kind about it. Gently scolding Dean with a lengthy discussion on abstinence and temptation instead of being as angry as he should have been.

Thank God for his father's absence at that point. Because, although Dad had no love for a God that allowed his wife to burn, Dean knew that even John Winchester would draw the line at his son feeling up a girl in church.

Of course, they were closely watched after that episode.

Beth had started attending the daily study sessions instead of just the weekly youth meeting. Jim had pointedly seated her across the table from Dean, away from the temptation of grabby hands. But it hadn't stopped her from angling a wandering foot up and down Dean's legs as they faked interest in the reading materials, sending shock waves of pleasure up his spine.

For the next few evenings there were casual brushes against each other at the snack table. Smoldering looks above open pages of biblical texts. Stolen, passionate, strawberry flavored kisses behind the door of the community hall kitchen after they volunteered for clean up duty.

By the time Pastor Jim's housekeeper told the boys that he was called away on hunter's business a week later, Dean's balls were bluer than a smurf.

Presented with the perfect opportunity to skip out, there was no hesitation on his part to grab the Impala's keys with one hand, and Beth in a shockingly short skirt in the other, and make a break away from the watchful eyes of helmet heads and twin sets.

She directed him easily to the parking area near the iconic statue. Late enough in the evening to be safe from the prying eyes of visiting tourists. Withe the Impala's engine still warm from the short drive, an enthusiastic make out session in the front seat rapidly progressed to the back seat. Frenzied kisses and groping hands becoming fumbling maneuvers to move clothing out of the way.

Dean lay willingly on his back as Beth climbed on top of him, scarcely comprehending the reality that this beautiful girl was about to become his First Time. With a determination that took his breath away, she nipped him repeatedly, his pleasure sensors on overload, as if she were claiming him.

He was happy to surrender.

Close by, the big green man stood sentry behind them, steadfast and strong at his post, and Dean's last rational thought was that Beth had seemed very skilled in the way she had wrangled him into a condom. He didn't mind. In fact, he was grateful. At least one of them should know what they were doing, after all.

The urgency kept building and building, steamed windows and creaking leather as soft flesh rocked together until Dean had fireworks of pleasure explode in his brain, rendering him unable to speak while his legs shook from the aftereffects.

Beth was still on top, giving him the full cowgirl, when the Impala's back door was ripped open.

Things got noisy after that. Beth was pulled off of him, afterglow turning to tears, as Pastor Jim wrapped her slight form up in his suit coat. Mortified, Dean struggled to get dressed as he stared wide eyed at Beth being bundled into Jim's pick up.

A struggle that had only become worse when he caught sight of his father's imposing form, strong massive arms reaching into the interior of the car to bodily extract his oldest son. Dean positively freaking out and tripping over his pooled up jeans in the process.

John had dragged Dean, hyperventilating and half dressed to the back of the Impala, already pulling his own belt from the loops of his jeans that were covered in mud from the ditch where they had wrecked Caleb's jeep.

The older hunter's emotions were running high from the stress of the car accident he had just been in thirty miles outside of Blue Earth, bleeding into the abject fear and worry over his missing son. Car gone and Sammy having no clue where his brother was. Only to stumble across his boy going for glory in the backseat where the kid himself had probably been conceived.

Mary had loved that car.

With his father's unwielding hand holding him bent over the trunk, Dean had his recently deflowered bare ass whipped all the colors of the rainbow. Right out in the open in front of God and Jolly Green.

It had also cost him two hours sitting on a hard church pew while Jim lectured on sin and salvation. Besides being grounded practically forever for a list of offenses that his dad was happy to reiterate repeatedly when they headed out the next day for an eighteen hour road trip to the next hunt.

To this day, Dean still felt that it had all been worth it.

 _Now….._

Dean's small smile turned up at the corners to a full grin as they zoomed past the Green Giant statue. They were old friends, him and Jolly Green, and he found himself flipping a jaunty salute to the character that had born witness to one of his most awesome experiences.

 _Good Times._

Pastor Jim's place never changed. There was a warm feeling of comfort and familiarity as the two Winchester vehicles pulled up in the driveway. The man himself was waiting for them on the porch as they climbed out of the cars, stretching and popping muscles from the long day on the road.

Sam bounded up the stairs and greeted Jim with a hug, like the affectionate puppy that Dean likened him to. The Winchester brothers had little in the way of close family and the good pastor was part of their small circle.

Dean wasn't much of a hugger at his age, but he did give Jim a warm handshake and hearty pat on the back. The pastor herded the boys into the kitchen where his housekeeper laid out some finger foods and iced tea that they snacked on while their father and Jim talked quietly in the den.

When the two older men joined them in the kitchen, Dad reminded them that they had PT to do, so Sam and Dean grabbed their bags out of the car and changed into their sweats. It was late in the afternoon, but still beautiful outside, with plenty of daylight left, and the large well manicured side yard was the perfect place to do their drill.

It didn't take long for them to fall into the regular rhythm of the mandatory workout that John had them follow religiously, firmly believing that hunters needed to keep physically fit at all times.

 _Boys! Is your body an asset or a weakness?_

Dad would routinely bark this question at them when enthusiasm for early morning runs was less than stellar. Genetic luck with rapid fire metabolisms kept them slim, despite Dean's love affair with grease and pie. But even skinny kids needed conditioning to build up strength and speed.

Dean did the workouts because his father ordered them done, and that was that. No questions asked, because he was a good son. Fortunately Sam didn't mind them too much, preferring a healthier lifestyle anyway, and a good natured competition had grown over the years as he caught up to his older brother in size and strength.

Days spent cooped up the car made the exercise even more attractive to two active young men, sets of sit ups, push ups and crunches expending pent up energy from sitting still too long. Moving side by side in unison on Jim's lawn as they counted out their sets, the brother's enjoyed some quiet camaraderie.

Somehow, their father's sixth sense had the man stepping out onto the porch as the boys finished up the usual drill.

"Boys! Come up for a minute and hydrate."

Sweating and breathing hard, they loped up the stairs and gratefully took the bottles of water that Dad held out for them.

"How's your head, kiddo?"

Dean looked up at his father's knowing eyes, a ghost of a smile on the man's lips.

"All better," he replied, cocksure grin wide and confident.

John nodded, paternal stare successfully getting the message across to his oldest that today's subterfuge was a one shot deal.

"Sammy, you better get back to your second round, before you cool down too much," John ordered, not angrily, but his voice making it clear that it wasn't a suggestion.

Dean also stood up as Sam reluctantly pulled himself up from the porch chair, but his father's strong hand firmly pushed him back into his seat.

"Sam can do this one on his own, Dean. You count him out."

Dean was getting ready to protest when Sam shook his head every so slightly. There was no reason for Dad to be annoyed with both of them. Without a word, the younger boy headed back out onto the lawn and dropped down to begin his sets again.

His father gave Dean a quick pat on the shoulder and headed back into the house. Irritated and restless, he sat helplessly in his porch chair and watched his little brother push himself through another full workout. Dean was going to stuff the kid's face with food himself tonight at dinner. Sam was skinny enough, and he didn't need to lose the calories from an extra round of PT.

When the door opened behind him, Dean averted his gaze to avoid making a disrespectful comment to his father. It was John's place to handle his sons, but it didn't mean that Dean always agreed with him. He was surprised when it was Jim that took the seat next to him instead of his father.

"How are you, Dean?"

Jim's voice was kind and concerned as always, and he had a way of looking at Dean and seeing past all of the emotional masks and defenses that the young man had built up over the years.

Dean could have talked to him about anything and know that the good pastor would keep his confidence. He could talk about Sam's suspicious behavior and growing distance, or his father's increasing stranglehold on the kid. Of Dean's own weariness of the fights and fears for his little family.

But he didn't.

Even with someone as close and trusted as Jim was, Dean was loyal to Team Winchester, and talking about his father or brother behind their backs was an act of betrayal to his young mind. So, as usual, he changed the subject.

"Do you remember Beth?" he asked, smiling mischievously.

Jim laughed, shaking his head slightly and leaning back into the chair.

"Of course. She definitely left an impression."

Dean chuckled, managing to look a little chagrined over the slightly embarrassing manner that Jim had last encountered Dean and Beth together.

"I was thinking about her today, while we were driving here," he admitted. "Does she ever come around anymore?"

Jim's smile tightened, and his eyes had a wave of sadness peek into them.

"No. She doesn't. Actually, no one has seen her for almost three years."

Dean blinked hard at that news. Partly from the guilt of never having asked Jim about her during the couple of brief visits the Winchesters had made to Blue Earth since that last stay.

"You remember that she had a troubled home life?"

Jim's question was gentle and kind, and Dean nodded jerkily, recalling the numerous injuries that had littered Beth's face and arms when they were kids. He pushed his memory further and finally remembered them still present, yellowing and faded, but present when they had their romp in the Impala's backseat.

"She just left one day," Jim said sadly. "No warning, no message. One morning, her mother just found her room empty. Hasn't heard from her since."

Dean sat quiet, stunned, as he took in that information. That Beth had wanted to escape her life was not surprising. There were years of pain and unhappiness in her home, and a person could only take so much. What did surprise him was Beth cutting off contact with her mother. For all of her mother's faults, Beth had always given him the impression that she loved her mother deeply.

As if reading his thoughts, Jim continued softly.

"Sometimes when someone is unhappy, they make drastic decisions to do what is best for themselves. I think Beth knew that things at home were never going to change. And no matter how much you may love your family, you find yourself needing to leave them behind."

Feeling cold all of sudden, Dean stared out across the lawn and watched as Sam powered through his sets. Teeth gritting with determination and eyes narrowed. His recent secretiveness. Longer than usual trips to the library. An extra strong reluctance for Dean to be anywhere near his duffel bags.

It was starting to click.

Sam was unhappy. Really and truly unhappy.

Dean knew it. Dad knew it. Hell, everyone knew it. His kid brother wasn't one to suffer in silence. The question was how unhappy? Unhappy enough to bail on his family? The boy had run away more than once, after all.

In that moment, sitting in the late afternoon sun on Jim's porch, Dean realized that he needed to do something. _Now_. Otherwise, he might just be here again someday. Talking to Jim. Only this time, they might be talking about how Dean and John hadn't heard from Sam in three years.

And that wasn't a future Dean was ready to live with.


	4. August 2000

"Demons lie, John."

That was the third time those words had come out of Singer's mouth since they left the abandoned warehouse outside of Minneapolis. John clenched the steering wheel of the Sierra with a death grip to avoid snarling at his friend, because if the salvage man tried to say it one more time, John was going to start throwing punches.

"Yeah," he seethed, swirls of red rage dancing around the corners of his vision. "But they tell the truth if it hurts more."

The entire hunt had been one enormous clusterfuck. Now exhausted, bloody, bruised and drained, John was flooring the gas pedal to race back to his kids.

/

Demon possessions were rare.

Even Singer, who was the hunting community's go-to guy on demonology, only came across a handful of them in any given year. Once Missouri had convinced John that it had, in fact, been a demon that had killed his Mary, it was Bobby's expertise on the subject that had been the reason John sought him out in the first place.

That was almost fifteen years ago. The Winchesters had arrived in Sioux Falls in the early hours of a cold February morning, and John had unabashedly interrupted Bobby's first cup of coffee with an insistence on learning everything and anything demon related.

Bobby Singer didn't like people. In fact, the less he had to be subjected to outsiders, the better, and he really didn't like people that messed with his caffeine fix.

It was an aversion that didn't always jibe with either of his professions. The ramshackle salvage yard he had inherited from his bastard of a father did _okay_ financially, but could have done a lot better with an owner that didn't scare off customers with his distrusting glares and ever present aroma of whiskey.

The hunting he did so that some other poor clueless schmuck wouldn't have to kill his possessed wife, and while Bobby could pretext with the best of them, he didn't actually like being around civilians once the case was put to bed.

Something changed the day the grieving little family showed up at his house. In John's eyes he saw the same pain and determination Bobby had been seeing in the mirror every morning since Karen.

This wasn't a civilian.

He already knew from Missouri that Winchester was an up and comer in the hunting world, and the similarities of their introductions into the life had Bobby more willing than normal to offer assistance.

Then there were the boys.

A little six year old with spiky light brown hair and piercing green eyes that alternately glared distrustfully at Bobby and then shined wide with fear at the unfamiliar surroundings. Bobby's first glimpse of him was as he hid halfway behind his father's tall broad stance, clutching Winchester's leather coat in his little hands.

In the man's arms, halfway asleep, was a toddler with a mop of chocolate brown curls and flushed pink cheeks. He clung to his daddy like a little spider monkey, head buried in Winchester's neck and sucking a thumb that his father repeatedly removed while the two men spoke.

John was a man that was walking a precarious line between being emotionally wrecked and obsessively driven. A former Marine who had lived through the horrors of Vietnam, only to come home, marry the love of his life and father two beautiful boys before being thrown head first into the supernatural world.

Winchester feared for his boys in a way that a childless man like Singer could only guess at. Bobby couldn't blame him a bit. After only a few days in his house, he himself was falling in love with the two adorable rugrats, against all good reason and sense.

Sadly, as the little family infiltrated his solitary life, enjoying their company ripped open the gaping wound left by his last fight with his Karen over his unwillingness to give her a child. An excruciating pain that had him reaching for the bottle a little more than usual. He hadn't wanted to risk becoming a man like his father had been, but her tears over his angry words would haunt his days forever.

Dean was a tiny force of nature. A tough sturdy little boy, equal parts mischief and good manners. He hero worshiped his father and tenderly doted on his little brother. There wasn't anything little Sammy needed that Dean didn't run to provide, from a snack to a cuddle, or even help with a diaper change. John never had to tell him twice to do anything, and even childless Bobby knew that six year olds didn't just obey like that usually.

The baby was as inquisitive as every child that age. He waddled around the old house at impressive speeds, getting into everything and anything, with his hawk-eyed miniature guardian glued to his side to make sure he never got hurt. Sammy was happiest climbing all over his father as John sat hunched over Bobby's kitchen table reading every book the salvage man put in front of him.

After a few moments of jumping and tugging, John would settle the toddler on his lap with a picture book of his own, and the two would sit with identical distracted looks on their faces while they leafed through the pages. Dean would flop down on the floor as close to his father and brother as he could physically place himself and sit, perfectly content, as he quietly played with whatever toy had caught his interest.

What had originally started as a plea for knowledge, turned into an extended stay.

For all of Bobby's abhorrence of people, he bonded with John and his boys, in a way he never had before. He enjoyed the lively sounds of children scampering through the aging home, bringing a semblance of happiness to the house that had been missing since Karen's death. The old place hadn't known the laughter of a child before. In Bobby's lifetime anyway.

John was proud but obviously struggling financially. His complete mania about refusing to keep his boys in any one place too long saw the little family in perpetual motion, but their nomadic lifestyle took money that was hard to come by, and it was beginning to show in the well worn clothes and tattered toys.

Bobby had offered his place for as long as they needed it, but John wouldn't stay without paying his way, a quiet dignity in his refusal to accept a handout, even from kindred spirit like Singer. He was, in fact, preparing to leave until old Mrs. Hillstrom brought her belching heap of a Buick to the salvage yard looking for help.

The other garages in the area refused to do a nonprofitable patch job on a car with almost no book value, and it might have been slightly to their credit that none of them were keen to take advantage of a senior on a fixed income by jacking up the estimates unnecessarily.

Bobby's place had been her last desperate hope. He took a cursory look under the hood and sighed, scratching his head under his well worn ball cap as he tried to come up with a civil way of telling her that he agreed with the others. Fortunately, John had come outside with the boys all bundled up for a last run around the grounds before being packed into the car for their imminent departure.

He had seen the old lady's weepy eyes and walked over to see if he could help, and Bobby could see that behind the grief and obsession, Winchester was naturally a kind and gentle man. Mrs. Hillstrom had tearfully choked out the story of how the ancient beast of a car had been her late husband's last gift to her and she couldn't bear to part with it. It wasn't worth nothing, in Bobby's opinion, money-wise, but sometimes there were more important things than money.

John had patted her shoulder warmly, one grieving spouse to another, before telling Dean to take Sammy back into the house to look at his picture books. Without asking anyone's consent, he got in the car and pulled it into the empty bay across from the house, and less than thirty minutes later had it purring like a kitten. Mrs. Hillstrom was still crying, this time with joy, as she attempted to push a small handful of cash at John's chest. Only for him to waive her off and nod in Bobby's direction.

Partial payment for the last few days of room and board for him and his kids, Bobby knew. Even though the younger man was flat broke himself, his pride had him doing the honorable thing.

During their initial meeting, Winchester had briefly mentioned having experience as a mechanic, but Bobby hadn't realized just how skilled the younger man actually was. After that, it didn't take much convincing to keep John at the salvage yard, working out an agreement for housing, knowledge and a bit of cash in exchange for occasional repair jobs.

It took a few weeks for Dean to finally relax around Bobby enough that he didn't watch the salvage man's every move with a suspicious eye when he walked within five feet of his little brother. His brilliant green eyes already had a penetrating stare enough to unnerve Singer, and had him wondering exactly when he had become someone who got intimidated by a six year old.

The little boy wasn't a big talker either, unless it was to answer one of the baby's babbling questions that only his big brother seemed to understand. Dean's entire early vocabulary to Bobby consisted only of _'Good Morning_ ', ' _Good Night_ ', ' _Please_ ', ' _Thank You_ ', ' _Yes, Sir_ ' and ' _No, Sir_ '.

Singer had initially been concerned with Dean's lack of vocal skills, but it had not taken long for him to realize that the six year old was exceptionally chatty with his father and brother when he didn't realized he was being watched. At six, Dean should have at least been in kindergarten already, but John had kept him away from school so far. From the limited conversation they had held regarding that decision, Bobby got the distinct impression it was more over worry about having his boy among a bunch of strangers than about not wanting Dean educated.

Dean could already read, which surprised Bobby early in the stay. He soon realized though that whenever Sammy was put down for a nap, and there were no repair jobs for John to do, Dean would crawl into his father's lap and John would patiently help his son read book after book. Something the young father had apparently been doing for some time.

The little boy knew basic addition and subtraction as well. It wasn't unusual for Bobby to come into a room and hear Dean chatter to Sammy about how many building blocks he could add and take away as they made towers on the carpet in the living room. It didn't seem to matter that Sammy had no idea what Dean was talking about.

The baby would listen wide eyed and smiling to anything his big brother said to him.

Dean was obviously very bright and, to his credit, John spent a good deal of time encouraging his son's intellectual curiosity. Singer still thought the boy needed to be around more kids that just his brother, but he wasn't about to pick a fight with John over his parenting choices just yet.

It took almost two months for Dean to allow Bobby to be alone with Sam for any length of time. With the South Dakota weather still too cold for the baby, Dean would run back and forth between the semi-exposed bay, when John would work on the occasional repair, and the house where Sammy napped on the couch in Bobby's living room.

It would have been cute if Bobby didn't see just how frenzied the little boy became when separated from either of his family members.

The warding around the Singer home made John tolerably comfortable that it was relatively safe for his children, but only barely, and by the time Sammy's second birthday rolled around three months into their stay, the protective father was chomping at the bit to be on their way.

Although Bobby himself managed to live above board most of the time, he gave John careful instruction on how to work a hunter's credit card fraud to keep his little family housed and fed. Initially, Winchester had been reluctant. His hesitation a throwback to a time when the former Marine couldn't imagine acting so dishonestly.

Eventually, the young father had accepted that it was a price he needed to pay to care for his children if they were going to continue their search. John had picked up pool and poker in the Corps and Rufus, Bobby's occasional hunting partner and mentor, taught John how to use those skills to hustle to bring in some fast cash on the road.

There had only been a little money from the sale of the house in Lawrence. John and Mary had owned it just a few short years before the fire, and it had a hefty mortgage that needed to be paid off first. The money had lasted for the first year or so, but John was well and truly broke now. In retrospect, as finances got tight, John had lamented just giving his share of the garage to his former partner Mike Gunther in a fit of anger, after an argument they had over John's growing absence from work, and his insistence that the fire had been unnatural.

More worrisome had been the way that Mike's wife Kathy had grown attached to the boys with an undisguised longing in her eyes. John wasn't taking the chance that she wouldn't cross a line about his fitness as a father, and eventually he had just grabbed the boys and booked, never looking back.

On Sammy's second birthday, they had held a small party for the baby. Just enough to take a few pictures and have a cake with two candles that Dean helped blow out. John had been putting aside his share of the cash from the repair jobs, and he used a bit of that to buy some clothes and toys for Sammy, and some for Dean too as a big brother present. It had seemed like a nice day.

That had been the first night that Bobby saw John take a drink of something stronger than beer.

Hours after the boys had been put to bed, Bobby had walked by their room to see John sitting propped up against the headboard of Dean's bed with both of the boys asleep in his arms. The younger man was crying softly as he clutched his children to his chest, the blurry haze of whiskey making him oblivious to Bobby's shadowy presence in the open doorway. Bobby walked away quietly, unable to stomach the naked pain on John's face.

He wasn't surprised to wake up the next morning and find John already packing the Impala. Whatever brief period of peace the younger man had found at the salvage yard was clearly over. Singer could only imagine that a night crawled into the bottom of a bottle of Hunter's Helper had helped John dull the pain of missing his wife on their baby's birthday, but in the light of day, it was clearly time to move on.

Bobby watched the little family pull away from his home that day, not knowing how long it would be until he saw them again, and not realizing just how much he was going to miss them all.

For a man who had spent years living on his own, and being okay with that, the house suddenly seemed cold and empty without the constant buzz of little boys running around. The absence of John's companionship hit him harder that Bobby would have guessed. The two men had much in common and there had been many nights of quiet conversation you could only share with someone who had walked in your own shoes.

Rufus served as a hunting and drinking partner, but even his friendship didn't replace the hole in Singer's heart that the Winchesters now occupied.

They kept in contact. John called occasionally for help with various hunts, and Bobby was glad to hear that Dean did go to school in the fall. He even managed to convince John to bring the boys up for Thanksgiving, which turned out not to be too hard as the young father was already pulling Dean out of the school he had been attending to go hunt a banshee in Nevada.

Bobby had wanted to say something about moving the kids around so much, but he held his tongue. It wasn't his place to give anyone advice on child rearing. When the little family did arrive in Sioux Falls the boys looked happy and healthy and that was what was important.

It was John that worried him.

In just the few months they had been gone, the younger man had grown a little harder, his eyes a little colder, as the hunting life claimed him. He still doted on his kids, but his demeanor towards Bobby was less companionable, more professional. There were fewer relaxed conversations that didn't directly relate to hunting, and a return of the whiskey soaked evening on Thanksgiving night after the boys were sleeping.

A few days later, John took Dean out to the back lot to shoot targets for the first time. Bobby had worried about putting a gun in the little boy's hands, but the young father was dead set on it and there wasn't any changing his mind. When Dean bullseyed every single target, his dad's eyes shone with pride, but the salvage man's were full of sadness.

And so the visits came and went over the years.

As hard as Winchester tried, the hunting life spilled over in his family's life on more than one occasion. Dean had been old enough to remember the night his mother died, so there had never been any chance of protecting his innocence, but John did try desperately to shield Sammy for as long as he could.

During their visits, Singer watched the boys grow strong and confident. Closer to each other than conjoined twins, they would chase each other around the house and the salvage yard while their father studied and pressed Bobby for new leads and information on demon sightings.

Sammy followed after his big brother everywhere, hanging on Dean's every word like it was gospel, in the same manner that Dean shadowed their father. In return, Dean cared for his little brother like a mother hen, his attention only increasing as they grew, and beginning to include their father as well as John became more focused on his mission.

Sammy was just about to start school when Jim Murphy had called Bobby to tell him that a Shtriga that John had been hunting had found it's way to the motel room where the boys were holed up. Almost claiming the youngest Winchester's life before his father followed the trail back to his children and chased it off.

The distraught father had driven like a man possessed to get his kids safely to Blue Earth, out of harm's way, and was unfortunately too late to finish the kill when he returned to the motel, missing the end of the feeding cycle.

After John returned to collect the boys from Jim's place, he brought them to the salvage yard for what Bobby hoped was a break to collect themselves after the near disaster that had almost claimed Sammy, but he was wrong. There was an indescribable tension between John and Dean when they arrived. Something more than just the receding adrenaline rush of a hunt gone bad and the debilitating panic of almost losing their youngest.

John was dark and stormy, his eyes narrowing in anger one minute, and guilt laden the next. Dean, who had never hesitated to cuddle up to his father for story or a lesson on car repair, was suddenly withdrawn and distant. Avoiding his dad like the plague unless he was directly addressed, and watching Sammy's every movement like the little boy was made of glass.

A few days into their stay, John caught a case in Oklahoma, and for the first time, he consented to leave the boys in Bobby's care. A strict command to Dean to spend time working on his skills with the double barrel shotgun left the boy crushed for some unknown reason, because the kid loved to shoot. Bobby didn't fail to notice that Dean couldn't even look his dad in the eye when John walked out the door.

That was the first time that Singer balked at John's parenting. Instead of having Dean shoot one day, he took the kid to the park to toss a ball around. He knew there would be hell to pay, but he would be the one to pay it, not the boy. Sure enough, when John checked in by phone, he was furious, but when he returned he spent time with Dean shooting _and_ playing a few games of catch, and while their relationship warmed back up, the unease still lingered for a while.

After that, Bobby saw them occasionally for a day or two between hunts. It was getting harder to hide the hunting world from Sammy as he got older, especially in Bobby's house where every surface was covered with the world of the strange. The kid wasn't dumb, after all, and Singer wasn't surprised to find out that the cat was out of the bag just before Dean had his thirteenth birthday.

That new development brought even more unfortunate changes to the family dynamic.

Sammy, who had always been verbal and opinionated, started to become downright belligerent around his father. John's ever increasing passion for the hunt came at the expense of his formerly gentle manner and now there was an ever present underlining tension between himself and his youngest son. Whereas Dean obeyed blindly and never asked questions, all Sammy did was buck his father's orders, no matter how innocuous they were.

Bobby hadn't failed to notice that the amulet he had given Sam to gift to John was worn proudly around Dean's neck instead, and he chose to make no mention of that little tidbit of information. Devoted to them both, Dean bent over backwards to play peacemaker, but he was still just a kid too, and not always perfect.

They came to Sioux Falls at the beginning of the summer after Sammy turned nine, and from the moment they walked into the house, a fight was brewing between the boys. Nothing out of the ordinary for normal brothers, but decisively out of character for the Winchesters. For three days, the boys bickered and tussled and pushed each other's buttons. John scolded, sent them out for runs to work off energy, confined them to separate rooms and downright ordered them to behave _or else_.

They would stop for a while, cowed and subdued, only to kick up another fuss a few minutes later.

Eventually everything came to a head one sunny afternoon, and the next thing John and Bobby knew the boys were brawling and throwing punches, banging around the living room like little bulls in a china shop. Culminating in a tumbling ball of skinny arms and legs crashing into an end table and sending a lamp shattering against the faded wallpaper walls.

John had had enough by that point, lunging after his kids sprawled on the floor still going at it as he grabbed at flailing limbs, hauling the troublemakers up in two clean jerks of the backs of their shirts. He marched them upstairs to the room they shared, and even from a distance Bobby could hear the unmistakable sounds of a belt smacking skin and teary apologies of contrite boys.

Something snapped inside of him. The echos of his own miserable childhood roaring back at lightening speed. A fury built inside of him, ringing in his ears and clouding his vision. The whole event couldn't have lasted more than five minutes, but to the salvage man time had suddenly stood still as he drowned in memories of the past.

When John lumbered back down, apologies on his lips, Bobby let him have both barrels of his pent up and repressed emotions. During this tirade consisting of accusations of bastard fathers and beaten children, Winchester grew scarily quiet, an eerie darkness in his eyes, letting the older man speak his piece. Without a word of retort, he calmly cleaned up the mangled lamp before heading back upstairs. His anger spent, Bobby stood motionless in his empty living room for the few minutes that it took John to collect his kids.

He watched the boys as they trudged down the stairs, red faced and sniffling, but perfectly fine otherwise. There were no bruises, black eyes or broken bones that had been the hallmark of discipline in the Singer household. John was stone cold sober, unlike Bobby's old man, and the Winchester boys hadn't been cruelly beaten under the stench of cheap bourbon and stale sweat.

Sam, clingy since infancy when he was upset, was holding tightly to John's hand and unabashedly rubbing his tear tracked and snotty face into his father's sleeve as they walked. Clearly _not_ petrified of his father, the way Bobby had been of his own. Dean behind them, guilt radiating off of him in waves as he surreptitiously stole glances towards the table where the lamp had once resided. He glared at Bobby, having obviously overheard some of the salvage man's rant against his dad, and the boy's undisguised ire was like a punch to the gut.

Belatedly, Bobby realized that they were all carrying their duffels, fully packed and ready to go. John pressed the boys for an apology in Bobby's direction before politely thanking him for his hospitality, and leaving a fifty on the table where the lamp had been. Without another word, he led the boys out to the car and drove off, the Impala's wide tires kicking up gravel as they sped down the driveway.

Bobby didn't see them again for almost three years.

Realizing too late that he had allowed his own unresolved issues over his father's abuse spill over into his relationship with John and the boys, he had reached out to Winchester on several occasions. Firstly, under the pretense of sending him hunts and lore books for a while, before working up the courage to ask them back for a visit. John never took him up on the visits, but he didn't stop the boys from talking to Bobby either.

Jim Murphy saw them occasionally, and he was kind enough to keep Bobby updated. The Winchesters had stayed with him in Blue Earth for a while after John took a beating on a hunt and needed some down time. They boys were fine, Jim assured him. Making friends and happy, but Bobby still missed seeing them and his heart ached from the painful memory of their parting.

With contact limited, he was jerked awake by the late night arrival of the Impala's distinctive engine roaring up his driveway. He was waiting at the door, fear piercing his heart over the unexpected visit. In the darkness of the yard, John hefted his youngest, wrapped up in a blanket, out of the back seat and towards the house. An icy panic washed over Bobby for a split second before he realized that the boy was just deeply asleep and not injured.

Still small for almost twelve, Sammy was no trouble for his dad to carry up to their old room and settle onto the bed without waking him. Bobby stood in the threshold, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood as his mind raced with worry over Dean's whereabouts. He waited patiently, not wanting to spook John into taking off again, until the two men were back down in the living room.

Over a large tumbler of whiskey John told him about Dean getting caught shoplifting after gambling their food money away. Dean had been taken to a boy's home, CPS circling like sharks after the scent of blood. To protect the son John still had in his possession, he had been forced to leave Dean at the home until he was sure that Sam would be somewhere safe, but he needed to get back to New York.

Still wracked with guilt over their last encounter, Bobby had sworn to care for and protect Sammy until John could reunite his little family. Winchester had already proven that he would and could keep his children away from Singer or anyone else if his parenting was questioned. He was a far different man now, than the one Bobby had met years earlier. Sharper, colder and even ruthless to various degrees, but still frantic to protect his boys.

Bobby was at the kitchen table drinking his fourth cup of coffee by the time Sam had ambled down the stairs the next morning. The house was overpowered by the smell of eggs and bacon, so heavy that the yard dogs were whining hopefully on the porch for the treat they knew would be forthcoming. Sam's face was scrunched up in a still drowsy wakefulness as he padded across the living room in his pajamas and bare feet. He gave Bobby a shy hug and then slumped down in the chair next to him.

"Hi, Uncle Bobby."

"Hey Sam," Bobby answered, his voice breaking a little as emotion flooded his throat. He was just so goddamn glad to see the kid again. "You want some breakfast, boy?"

Sam shook his messy head and leaned over sleepily to rest his forehead in the crook of his arm.

"Dad's been making me eat, like, a million times a day, since he got back."

Bobby's face puckered into a frown hearing that. When John had explained what happened with Dean, he wondered what kind of straits the boys had been left in.

"Maybe he was worried you hadn't been eating enough when he was away," Bobby said gently. "Had Dean been making sure you boys were eating okay?"

Sam picked his head up and stared at Bobby as if the man had suddenly grown ten heads.

"Of course he did. He made us mac and cheese with hot dogs just before he left that night."

The young boy seemed affronted at any insinuation that his big brother hadn't been taking care of him. Sam looked healthy and well fed enough at any rate, and Bobby decided not to press the issue as to whether or not that meal had consisted of the last of whatever food the boys had in their room.

"Your daddy left a few hours ago," he replied instead, changing the subject.

Sam stretched and yawned, idly scratching the tangled rat's nest of his bedhead.

"I know. He woke me up to say goodbye."

Sam's eyes wandered around the room, scanning the piles of books scattered on the desks and shelves. He got up from the table abruptly and wandered over to a stack perched precariously on the old desk in the corner.

"Can I look at these?"

Bobby glanced at the collection quickly and deemed the volumes harmless enough considering what John probably already had the boy reading. He nodded his consent and watched as Sam grabbed one and curled up on the couch.

The lack of conversation wasn't like Sam. He talked damn near constantly, ever since the first day his daddy had carried him into the house. Singer watched him cautiously out of the corner of one eye, the silence thick and heavy between them. He finished his fifth cup and had poured his sixth, grabbing a few strips of bacon out of the warm pan and opened the door just wide enough to toss them to the mutts before being startled by Sam's voice behind him.

"He wasn't supposed to be hunting," Sam stated with shaky words. "He was mad at Dad."

The boy's face was grief stricken, his lower lip beginning to tremble as he sat hunched up on the sofa looking small and vulnerable. Bobby had sighed deep, because John had warned him that Sammy had been told that Dean was missing from a hunt. Why that story and not the truth, he hadn't asked, not really wanting the answer.

"Dean?"

Sam nodded and reached up to brush away a stray tear.

"A couple of weeks ago, Dad took us to New York City on a werewolf hunt. He even brought us sightseeing afterwards."

Sammy was smiling at the memory, even through his trembling shudders, and Bobby smiled too at the idea of the little family doing the tourist bit.

"But then Dean snuck out to go to some club and Dad had to go find him," Sam continued. "They had a big fight and Dean got really mad at Dad and yelled at him. Dean never yells at Dad."

Sam's eyes were wide in disbelief, as if he was still processing the idea that Dean would ever be that disrespectful to John. Frankly, Bobby's eyes probably looked the same.

"Dean wasn't supposed to leave our room when we moved to Hurleyville. Dad said he was grounded. So he shouldn't have been hunting in the first place."

Bobby had had no answer to that simple statement of fact. It was clearer now why Dean had chosen to gamble the food money as a fit of rebellion and not necessarily need. The cocky sixteen year old probably hadn't imagined a scenario where he would lose the cash and then need to steal to feed his brother and himself, let alone get caught doing it.

Bobby wanted to comfort Sam but he wasn't going to risk the tenuous truce that he had going with John by revealing the whole story. Instead he took a seat next to Sam on the couch and pulled the boy into a hug.

"He didn't even say goodbye to me," Sam whimpered as the tears fell freely.

Over the next few weeks, Bobby had tried to keep Sam's mind occupied so that he wasn't in a state of constant worry for his brother. John called to check in every few days to let Singer know what was really going on and to comfort his youngest with reassurances of his brother's eventual safe return.

Somehow the charges were dropped and John felt comfortable claiming his boys without fear. He showed up without notice and grabbed Sam one night. The boy bounded out to the Impala without hardly a backwards glance in Bobby's direction, excited to be seeing his brother, and none of them ever spoke of it again.

The next time Bobby had seen the Winchesters, it had been Sam who was the wayward son, and Bobby the one wallowing in guilt as it had been partially his fault.

About a year after the CBGB/boys home incident, Dean had called Bobby breathless and panicked because Sam had gone missing from their current residence outside of El Paso. The boys had been fighting and Dean left Sam home alone to brood while he looked for some action at a pool hall near the motel. By the time Dean got back, Sam was gone. Duffel missing and no note explaining why.

Dean had already been tearing up the area searching for three days by the time he had been able to get a message to John who was hunting out in the desert with no cell signal. Desperate, he had finally called Bobby in the hopes that Sam had made his way up to Sioux Falls, and the salvage man had to break the kid's heart by admitting that the younger brother wasn't with him.

While the Winchesters were looking under every stone in a four state radius, Bobby remembered showing Sam the list of safe houses marked for hunter emergencies. At the time, it had been meant to put the boy's mind at ease in case he or his brother had ever found themselves "lost" on another hunt. A place where they could go safely until help could arrive.

Swearing a blue streak, he knew right away that Sam would be in one of them because the boy had shown too much of an interest in the specifics of the locations. Bobby had just assumed it was Sam's natural curiosity, but given the kid's bullheadedness, he should have known better.

He split the list for the ones near El Paso, taking one half while John and Dean took the other. Leaving Rufus behind at the salvage yard in case the boy did in fact show up there, Bobby hopped a plane and headed south. It had just been dumb luck that he was the one to find Sam at the cabin in Flagstaff.

When Singer had burst through the front door, Sammy was sitting calmly on the bed, amid a chaotic mess of empty pizza boxes and Funyun bags, reading a book, with a Mr. Pibb in his hand, while a goddamn golden retriever sat guard at his feet. The boy had looked up and smiled at him, as innocent as a little cherub.

"Oh. Hi, Uncle Bobby."

As if the little shit didn't have a care in the world. As if Bobby hadn't jumped the first flight out and then tear assed his way through six other cabins before hitting this one. As if the boy's brother and daddy weren't ripping their hair out trying to find him, worried out of their minds that one of their usual playmates had been responsible for the kid pulling a Lindbergh baby.

Bobby cursed himself for giving John such a ration of shit about belting the boys years ago, since he was itching to put Sam over his own knee at that particular moment.

It took almost three hours for the other Winchesters to reach the cabin once Bobby had called them. John plowed through the door looking like he had aged ten years overnight as he scooped his missing child up into his arms. Dean had looked like shit, and there wasn't a nicer way to describe him. His eyes were ringed black with sleep deprivation, his face whiter than ash and his cheeks hollow. Whatever the kid had put himself through in the last two weeks had quite plainly been hell on earth.

Thankfully, after that, the visits with the little family had been relatively drama free until Bobby found himself calling John about demon signs in Minneapolis.

/

As soon as Dean and the Impala were safely down the driveway and roaring towards town, Sam pulled open his duffel bag and rifled through the contents until he could grab the stack of papers he had been printing off for the past few weeks.

As he flipped through the pages, he knew that his grades as they stood would gain him entrance to most state schools, and that was a good thing, because it would probably be all he could afford with student loans. It was the fierce competition for scholarships that had him most concerned.

The better scholarships had more criteria requirements than good grades. Lots of students had the grades, so it was the extracurriculars that really made the applicants stand out. Sam had played a little soccer once upon a time. He had been a Mathlete briefly, and always took AP classes when he had a chance. None of that would go a long way towards looking impressive on an application.

Sure, he had unique skills and abilities that would certainly set him apart from the rest of the scholarships seekers. Although, he had a sinking feeling that good marksmanship, lethal martial arts skills and a knowledge of how to kill things that go bump in the night were not going to convince anyone that he was worthy of funding without giving some corporate paper pusher nightmares.

He could just imagine how that interview would go.

" _Mr. Winchester. Please tell us about your skills and hobbies."_

" _Well, I can name all of the Zodiac Killer's victims in chronological order and I can make homemade flame throwers."_

Yeah. That would go over well.

He let the papers drop next to him on the couch as he rubbed his eyes and sighed in frustration. What he really needed was a chance to put down some roots long enough to join a few clubs and teams. Make enough of an impression on few teachers who would have no reservations about writing letters of recommendation.

But that wasn't likely to happen. Not with the way the Winchesters lived and moved around. A family of homeless drifters that wandered in and out of towns, keeping their heads down and working hard to make sure they weren't noticed. It was difficult to get teachers to single out excellence in a student that had been groomed since childhood to blend into the background.

Outside, Cohen and Perry were barking at something in the distance. Sam's eyes flew open, reflexes already moving his body into a defensive position without even thinking about it. He sprang cat-like into a crouch as he scanned the salvage yard through the dirty window for danger, only relaxing when he realized that the yard dogs were straining at their leashes to snarl at a feral cat crawling on top of one of the old wrecks near the open bay.

Shit like that is why no decent school will ever look at Sam Winchester right now. A couple of dogs can't even bark at a cat without Sam acting like Bobby's place was under attack from supernatural forces.

He huffed and flopped back down on the couch, distractedly sorting the pages until his fingers landed on the paperclipped bundle labeled _Emancipation of a Minor Child_.

It's a legal Hail Mary. Dean had been right when he stated plain that Dad would never leave Sam somewhere without another Winchester for as long as an entire school year. Over the years, there had been more than one whispered conversation between John and one of the other family friends about that issue exactly. Some hunters they knew, like Bobby and Pastor Jim, had permanent homes that they were only too happy to open to the boys.

John had rebuffed every single offer, and Sam knew that the real reason for the refusal was his father's unwavering stance against any other hunter having that much contact with his kids. No matter how good the intentions, he didn't trust anyone that completely. His dad would rather have the boys alone in a motel room somewhere for weeks on end than let them live in someone else's house.

No reason to suspect that he would change his mind about that this late in the game.

Feeling a little sick to his stomach with a vague acknowledgment that it might be guilt churning up the nausea, he flipped through the pages as he again scanned the legal definitions and circumstances that would allow a minor, such as himself, to apply for emancipation from his father's custody. Just about every situation could be applied to his family if you squinted a little, and Sam was pretty sure that with his fancy vocabulary, he could make a successful argument for it.

It could get tricky.

The emancipation laws varied from state to state, and since the Winchesters had no stable address, Sam figured he might actually apply in Kansas since that is where he at least had a birth certificate on file. He would need to show that he could provide for himself, which he wasn't worried about. He was willing to find a crap job that would pay him enough to make a little money legally. There were state and federal funds he could apply for as an emancipated minor to cover the rest of his monthly expenses.

He could already prove that he knew how to live on his own. Dad and Dean had left him alone in various motels on several occasions over the years, and he had been just fine. Able to feed himself from the stash of canned goods that got left for him. Get himself to school every day, where he made good grades without parental influence. He kept his nose clean and had no juvenile record to speak against his character.

It wouldn't be hard to pitch John Winchester as an unfit parent either.

Dad was a barely functional alcoholic most of the time when he wasn't hunting. Not that Sam didn't grudgingly acknowledge that the man had good reason, but it still pissed him off that his father _chose_ to subject himself repeatedly to those reasons. Even worse, he subjected his kids to those reasons as well, and Dean was already headed in the same direction, even though his big brother was only twenty-one with a whole life ahead of him.

His father could be a real mean drunk too. A little too much tequila and John would tear up a motel room faster than the boys could blink, over small insignificant things. Since they were little, Dean would shove Sam into the bathroom, out of harm's way, while he soothed their father and calmed him down.

Sam had been scared of his father's drunken rages when he was small, hiding in the bathtub with his knees pressed up against his chin and his hands clamped over his ears. Over time though, he came to realize that John would never lash out at his kids. With that understanding, Sam eventually grew bold enough that his fear turned to annoyance and disgust instead.

The holidays were the worst on Dad, ramping up his already rumbling undercurrent of anger, and they usually ended with broken furniture, cold congealing take out food and Dean settling their father on the couch in a booze induced stupor. Dean would try to act like nothing was wrong, once Dad was passed out. He would smile and tease Sam as he ate cold food and put some stupid holiday movie on the crap TVs that came with the rooms.

Pretending that the mess wouldn't force them to leave the next day for the next shit room in the next shit town.

Unpleasant memories swirled around in his head as Sam leaned back into the couch, shutting his eyes tight and trying mightily to swallow back the bile cresting in his throat. It was the solution to his problem. No court in the country would deny him the right to be legally separated from his family with all of the bullshit in their lives that he had been forced to grow up with.

As he sat in the quiet stillness of Bobby's tumble down house, he already knew he would never be able to go through with it. Even if his father and brother managed to keep out of jail for the mile long list of crimes that would come to light once Sam had a court digging into his family life, they would hate him forever.

Sam wouldn't just be burning a bridge with his family by doing this. He would also be napalming the villages on each side of the bridge, and then nuking the whole area from orbit just to be sure.

He decided that if he was really going to try to study law, he needed to start by being fair about his upbringing. As Aristotle once said " _The law is reason free from passion…Man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all._ "

For years Sam had resented and judged his father and brother for their dismissal of normalcy and acting lawlessly without regard for the damage they left in their wake. He wanted to do better than that, and see the world in black and white without graying the lines. However, without bringing his own prejudices and personal desires into the equation, he was forced to admit that his childhood wasn't abusive in the strictest sense of the word.

They may not have had a regular home, but Dad had never let them be homeless. Sam had always had some kind of roof over his head and a warm bed to sleep in at night. Maybe the motels weren't great, with funky smells, stained carpets and rusting pipes, but they didn't live on the streets. The hot water might have been inadequate occasionally, but they always had enough running water to practice proper hygiene.

The boys never went hungry. Sometimes dinner came out of a can or a cereal box, but there had been food on the table. Dean always tried hard to mix things up, so their bland fare was a little more palatable than it might have been when money got tight.

His big brother also hoarded a little cash here and there to buy treats and toys when Sam would have a bad day at a new school and feel a little down. Their clothes were basic, and came from Goodwill and Army Surplus, but they were clean and respectable enough, if slightly faded.

Dad might have dragged them from school to school, but they were well educated. Maybe Sam didn't get to join clubs and sports teams because the brothers were kept under lock down at the motels, but they were safe from strangers, both human and monster.

Their father gave them orders and sharply barked stinging critiques when they didn't work hard enough, or got lazy with weapons or their studies. He gave them hugs too, and taught them everything they knew from how to tie their shoelaces to how to handle themselves in a fight.

He was tough on them and demanding, and they grew up saying ' _Yes, Sir_ ' and ' _No, Sir_ ', but if having good manners and respect for their elders was abuse, the southern half of the country was in deep shit.

Dad expected good behavior and obedience, and sometimes Sam's smart mouth and stubbornness pushed his father far enough to give him a whipping that bruised his pride as much as his ass. Although John was more likely to make him run extra miles, or do double crunches, or copy endless passages out of archaic lore books to keep his youngest in line.

" _Yes,_ _Y_ _our_ _H_ _onor. My dad punishes me with physical fitness and education."_

Tragic, Sam. Seriously, tragic.

Besides all of that, there was Dean to consider.

Sam's big brother has taken care of him his entire life. He was a jerk most of the time. An obnoxious idiot with a big mouth that screwed around, made trouble and teased Sam mercilessly. He had terrible taste in music, a casual disregard for women and an unhealthily large porn collection. He made a mess of their toothpaste tubes and left dirty socks in the sink and pizza crusts under the beds that attracted bugs.

He also made sure that Sam had some nice things, new things. Even when Dean had to make do with secondhand or none at all. He always had Sam's school records in good order for every move, fighting for his little brother to have the extra classes he wanted, and ignored his own studies to do Sam's share of whatever chores Dad left for them, so Sam could read books for pleasure.

Dean gave Sam advice on girls, protection from schoolyard bullies, and an example of how to act cool under pressure. A soothing washcloth on his forehead when he was sick, feverish and crying for his mom. A hug when he had nightmares and wanted his father's arms to make him feel safe again. He taught Sam how ride to the bike he used to take Sam to the ER after he broke his arm, and doled out an occasional smack on the back of the head to remind his brother to not be such a little asshole.

He stole Christmas gifts when Dad was MIA so Sam had something to open under a makeshift tree, and took him to a field on July 4th to set off a case of fireworks that burned the field down.

Even if Sam could drum up enough resentment to drag his father through the mud, he could never do it to Dean. It was going to be bad enough when he left for college as it was.

Dean had been distracted lately. Ever since they were in Blue Earth at Pastor Jim's a few weeks ago. Sam couldn't quite put his finger on what, but he knew his brother was deep in contemplation over something. Maybe he had been hurt by Sam's request to be left behind. It hadn't been his intention to hurt his brother. That's the very last thing Sam would want to do. Dean had always given so much of himself, sacrificed so much of his own personal needs to give Sam whatever he could.

Honestly, Sam dreamed of talking his brother into settling down with him and living a normal life. He knew that it was too late for their father. The hunting life had taken over John Winchester long ago, and it wasn't ever letting him out without bloodshed and death. Dad had promised them for years that once Mom was avenged, it would be over, but Sam had stopped believing in that the minute their father allowed Dean to drop out of school to hunt.

Maybe Sam's departure would be enough to jolt his brother into the realization that it didn't have to be this way. Dean didn't have to give everything he had to a life that might get him dead before age thirty. The Winchesters weren't the only hunters, and why was everything their problem? Why did they have to sacrifice everything for other people? Why was it on them to save other families from danger?

John and Dean were _Sam's_ family, and he _loved_ them. They might not always think so, but he did. So why weren't they important enough to be spared? To be saved from harm? Hadn't they done enough? Hadn't their family already lost enough?

Sam certainly thought so.

/

Dad and Bobby arrived back at the salvage yard just a few minutes after Dean did himself. He hadn't even made it into the house before the Sierra was rumbling up the driveway, and hadn't been prepared for the complete train wreck of his father's face as he practically tumbled out of the driver's seat.

It didn't take a genius to see that the hunt had gone badly in some form or another.

Bobby nodded a greeting at him, but said nothing as he lumbered inside. Dad's hair was wild, and his dark eyes were troubled as he threw an arm around Dean's shoulders and pulled him in close. Dean could feel his father's face pressed into the side of his head, inhaling the comforting scent of his child, something Dad hadn't done since Dean was a small boy. As if he needed the physical contact to assure himself that his son was okay.

"Dad?"

John didn't answer his son's panicked voice. He just pulled Dean tighter into his shoulder and heaved heavy breaths over the top of the boy's head, relieved to be assured of one son's safety, before hurriedly dragging Dean towards the house.

Dean's heart picked up a few beats in fear, but he kept his mouth shut as his father led him inside. Sam was curled up on the couch reading a book, but when he saw the manner of their arrival, he jumped up to his feet. Dad grabbed Sam with his other arm, and for a moment crushed the brothers in a tremulous embrace.

It wasn't unusual to see his father messed up six ways from Sunday after a bad hunt, but this behavior was new and scary. Sam shot his brother a _what the fuck_ look, but all Dean could do was shrug, wide eyed and confused, as their father gripped them so tight that airflow was about to be compromised.

Collectively freaking out, they stood quietly for a moment and let their dad's trembling arms steady around them before Dean tried again.

"Dad? What's going on?"

They felt their father inhale a deep breath that he shakily released after holding it a moment. Then he was gently pushing them back, reaching up to palm both of them on the side of their faces as his eyes skipped back and forth between them, like a slightly psychotic tennis match.

"S'ok, boys," he replied, trying for reassurance, and failing. "Everything is fine."

Dean frowned, lips pursed in an agitated scowl, caught between an overpowering need to understand what was so colossally fucked up that it had _John Winchester_ scared, and the ingrained auto response of unquestioning obedience to his father's commands.

Sam was just as rattled, and not so obedient.

"Dad, what happened? Are you hurt?"

John affectionately pushed his younger son's hair away from the boy's face and shushed him, wanting to soothe away the fear that his turbulent arrival had put in Sam's hazel eyes.

"I'm okay, Sammy. Nothing to worry about kiddo."

Sam wanted to push. _Would_ have pushed under normal circumstances, but even the usually obstinate son was silenced by their father acting so rattled, so he kept his mouth shut. He threw another worried glance over to Dean, but his brother was studying John's face intently, and knew that their father was keeping something big from them.

Dad let go of them abruptly, shucked his jacket off, throwing it over the back of the couch where Sam had been reading, and headed towards the kitchen.

"You boys look hungry. I'm gonna make you some dinner."

The brothers shared an incredulous look, because their father rarely cooked for them anymore. Not since Dean had fully taken over the job when the three of them were together, and Dad _never_ cooked for them at Bobby's house anymore. Uneasily, they followed John into the kitchen, and watched as he pulled pots onto the stove and rummaged around the cabinets. Bobby joined them after a few minutes and Dean shot him a questioning glare, but the salvage man just slowly shook his head, refusing to provide information if they weren't getting it from their daddy.

John barely spoke through the meal he had painstakingly made for his children. The spaghetti he served was the favorite of both of the boys, and normally they would have pounced on the bowl of pasta like it had been days since their last meal, but neither of them could drum up an appetite in the wake of their father's frightening behavior. There was a lot of pushing food around plates, and wary, stolen looks under their father's watchful gaze.

Dad's few words were to fuss over them, encouraging them to eat what he dished onto their plates. He made them the buttery garlic toast that they usually fought over, and poured them glasses of soda, like they were still small. Dean struggled to remember the last time his father had insisted on him drinking just soda at dinner, and the realization of that was another punch in the gut. Any other time they would have soaked up this kind of rapt attention after John's return from a long hunt, but tonight they were just scared.

Usually, their father would read during the evening, deeply engrossed in whatever lore book he happened to be obsessing over at the time, but tonight he herded the boys into the living room and popped an old John Wayne movie into Bobby's ancient VCR. He dropped down near them into the faded corner chair and divided the next few hours between giving the movie an occasional glance, and warily studying his sons as they perched uneasily on the sofa.

During the course of that movie, and the one that followed, both of the boys tried several attempts to get John to talk, but they were quickly and firmly shut down by a hard stare from their father before it would disappear and his face softened again. The tension in the air crackled like electricity all night until finally John told them both to go to bed. Normally, at least Sam would balk at the pushy paternal command, but even he was eager to obey and escape the pressure cooker atmosphere of Bobby's living room.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

Sam shut the bedroom door and hissed at Dean who was getting undressed. His big brother sat heavily on his twin bed and was yanking off his boots looking shaken.

"I dunno. Something sure as hell happened on that hunt. I've haven't seen Dad that freaked in years."

Sam dropped down his his bed and folded his coltish legs up underneath him as he started to chew his pinkie nail.

"Think we could get Uncle Bobby to tell us?"

Dean shook his head as he stood back up, reflexively pulling Sam's hand away from his mouth as he walked over to the dresser to grab his sleep shirt and sweats.

"He's not saying shit. Which means it's seriously bad. Bobby only circles the wagons when Dad really puts his foot down about telling us stuff."

Sam's anxiety was building, and his usual coping mechanism of anger was beginning to kick in. He sat on the bed and stewed for a few more minutes while his brother was in the bathroom washing up before coming back in and slipping under the blankets.

"He could just tell us what's going on," Sam spat, testily. "He doesn't have to be so goddamn secretive all the time."

On the other side of the room, Dean let out a long suffering huff. He just didn't have the energy to worry about his father's uncharacteristic behavior and deal with his brother's pissy attitude at the same time.

"Dad's not talking, Sam. And getting upset about it, isn't going to make him. Just back off until he cools down. I'll talk to him tomorrow."

Sam didn't say anything further, but he wasn't letting go of it either. He grabbed his own pajamas and stomped into the bathroom to change and brush his teeth. Dean already had the light off when he re-entered their room, clearly discouraging any more attempts at conversation. He grudgingly climbed into his own bed and spent the next few hours tossing and turning. Sleep staying maddeningly far out of his reach.

/

John sat in the darkness of Singer's living room, a tumbler of whiskey dangling precariously from his long unsteady fingers. A million nightmare scenarios had infiltrated his mind over the past few hours, like a lifetime of horror movies playing on repeat in every crevice of his brain.

He knew that he had scared the shit out of his kids. His boys were used to their horrifically damaged father, but he worked hard to not let them see him so rattled. They needed him strong, to make them feel safe, and he didn't always succeed, but he tried. God, he tried.

All the booze in the world was not going to take away the abject fear of the demon's words. No amount of whiskey could dampen the blood chilling questions of why Hell was so interested in his little boy, or why they were so determined to have him for their own.

The unholy creature had been so glib, so _sure_ , that Sammy was destined to be Hell's chosen one. Their very own Anti-Christ Superstar, so to speak. John had always known that Mary's death was at the hands of unspeakable evil, but to think that his baby son had some connection to that?

 _Ridiculous._

John's youngest was a petulant, trying, smart mouthed little pain in the ass, but he was a _good_ boy. A kind boy. The sort of kid that refused to kill spiders in their motel rooms because it was cruel, and did yard chores for the disabled widow that had lived next door to them in Tulsa last year. He would rant and seethe at his father one minute, and then cuddle up to John the next. Resting his head on Dad's lap, insecure and contrite, seeking love and forgiveness.

Sammy had his father's hot temper. That was all. John couldn't reconcile the idea that his sweet, incredibly smart boy had some lurking darkness inside of him. Something evil and unclean, biding its time for when he would morph into a creature designed to lead Hell's army. Not John's child. Not his Sammy. Not while John had a say.

He'd march into Hell itself and kill all of those black eyed bastards before they even _looked_ at his boy the wrong way.

John's head was throbbing, and every breath he took in smelled of blood and sulfur and smoke. The melting cubes of ice he had tossed into his whiskey clinked as he raised the glass to his forehead and pressed the coldness against the pulsating heat in his temple.

The booze had already dimmed his senses in his attempt to quell the surging tide of panic in his chest. He knew better than to allow his awareness of his surroundings be compromised, and when he heard a noise in the hallway, it startled him enough to drop the glass and have it go bouncing across the worn carpet.

"Dad?"

In the shadow of the threshold between the living room and the stairway, John made out the gangling form of his youngest child. Sam's shoulders were hunched as he regarded his father warily. A habit he had been developing as he gained height. His son's hair was askew, jutting wildly in every direction, and his young face was scared and unsure in the pale reflected glow of the salvage yard's perimeter lights.

John brushed a hand down his face, subconsciously wanting to wipe away any trace of worry, fear or tears that might be lingering. He raised the hand and wordlessly beckoned his son over to him, pushing aside the pang of hurt he felt from the boy's momentary reluctance. It was his own fault. Sammy knew he was drinking, and John wasn't always good to be around when he was deep in the bottle. Saddened by that thought, he watched his youngest cautiously amble over, nimbly avoiding the discarded glass and the ice now melting into the puddle of spilled whiskey.

Sam stood nervously a few inches from John's side, and the weary father reached out to gently tug his son down to sit on the ottoman in front of his chair. They sat in silence for a few seconds, John's vision blurry and strained as his boy fidgeted, uncomfortable with his father's quiet scrutiny in the darkness of the room. Usually when Dad was drinking, he was only quiet after he passed out.

"You need a haircut."

Sam's eyes widened from the warm rumble of his father's way out in left field statement, and he almost recoiled when John reached out to tuck a curl behind Sam's left ear. Somehow he managed to not shift away, but he couldn't keep the confusion off of his face, or the automatic petulance out of his response, as his dad smiled kindly at him.

"I like it longer."

John chuckled and palmed Sam's face for a second, rubbing a thumb across his left cheek affectionately. He nodded indulgently before dropping his hand back to the arm of his chair, aware of the searching concern in his boy's hazel eyes.

"Dad, are you okay?"

John leaned forward and clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees as he nodded.

"I'm okay, kiddo."

Disbelief was written all over his child's face, but John couldn't give Sam any more reassurances. It was taking all he had in him to stay sane right now, to not run around screaming in hysterical madness, and he didn't have the mental reserves to strengthen the mask he normally wore to protect his boys. Moving slowly, he reached out and took Sam's forearms in his hands and steeled his face, physically willing his son to believe his words.

"Sammy, you know I will always protect you boys, right? I will always do whatever I have to to keep you safe. Your brother, too. We won't let anything happen to you."

Sam subconsciously pulled back a little, but was met with resistance, his father's grip keeping him close. John's words were meant to be comforting, but they sent a chill up the boy's spine irregardless.

"Yes, sir. I know," he responded, feeling a little like a trapped animal in John's grasp.

Dad seemed to finally sense his discomfort and he loosened his hold on his son's arms, allowing the boy the freedom to pull away, but Sam didn't want to completely break contact with his father, so he stilled his movements and let John rest his hands on Sam's for a minute.

"It's late, Son. You need to get to bed."

Sam frowned, reluctant to leave his father in this condition, but John nodded tiredly at him, and he eventually forced himself up to his feet. On impulse, he leaned over and hugged his dad, trying to pretend that he couldn't feel a shaky desperation in his usually rough and tough father's arms.

The sensation did nothing to calm his fears for his father's mental state.

/

By the time Sam got up the next morning, Dean and Dad were already gone. Bobby was working in the kitchen with no idea as to their whereabouts, but told Sam that they had promised to be back by lunchtime.

Distracted, Sam spent the morning trying unsuccessfully to read _Slaughterhouse-Five_. For some reason, Dean had been very insistent that it be the next book on Sam's summer reading list. He couldn't concentrate on the words because he kept checking the driveway for his brother's car to arrive. Dean had promised to talk to Dad today, and after Sam's strange encounter with their father the previous evening, he was on pins and needles to see if his brother could pry out of their father exactly what had the man so spooked since his return.

The morning passed excruciatingly slowly, and it was already after one by the time he finally heard the telltale growling of the Impala's engine. Throwing the book aside, he loped out to the porch to greet them, only to see his father approaching the house alone. Dad looked a little less stressed than he had the previous day, but his eyes were still tight, his face pinched. He forced a smile for Sam, and affectionately ruffled his hair as he met him in the doorway.

"Your brother is waiting for you in the car kiddo. He wants to take you for a ride."

Sam started to protest, but his father shook his head and gave him a playful slap on the butt, jerking his chin in the direction of the driveway and making it clear it wasn't a suggestion. Pursing his lips in annoyance, Sam obeyed and headed out to the car, the strains of _Back in Black_ pounding out of the Impala's open windows as his brother sang along. He threw Dean a questioning glance as he slid in the passenger seat and pulled the door shut, only to have his brother turn the volume up higher as he put the car in gear and roared back down the drive.

"Where are we going?" Sam yelled over the music as they cruised towards town.

Dean seemed to be in high spirits, arm limp and hand loose as he steered, bouncing a little in his seat to the beat of AC/DC.

"Wanna show you something."

Sam rolled his eyes because, _seriously_ , it would be nice to have at least one member of his family answer a straight fucking question. Still, his brother was clearly too happy at the moment, and considering how tense last night had been, Sam wasn't going to press too hard and rock the boat. He decided to just lean back and let Dean do as he pleased for the moment, enjoying the warm sunshine of a beautiful South Dakota summer day.

They drove for another fifteen or so minutes as Dean made his way towards an unfamiliar residential area. The houses in the neighborhood were small, but they were well maintained for the most part. People were outside, mowing their lawns and watering flowers. Kids were riding their bikes and playing games in the street in the low traffic area. It was a pleasant site, and Sam wondered exactly what they were doing here.

Eventually, Dean pulled the car up into the roughly paved driveway of a small two story house. Sam frowned in confusion as his brother got out of the car and jerked his head in the direction of the house, clearly wanting Sam to join him. He got out of the car warily, instinctively looking around to see if anyone was noticing their presence.

"Dean, what are we doing here?"

His brother smiled widely and his green eyes were sparkling with mischief as Sam walked up to join him in the yard.

"C'mon, Sammy. Let's see what's inside."

Sam jerked back in horror, suddenly not wanting anything to do with whatever his brother had in mind. Were they really going to break into a house in broad daylight?

"It's a little early in the day for B&E, don't you think?" he hissed at Dean's retreating back.

Dean laughed and waited for Sam on the porch. When Sam refused to join him, Dean pulled a set of keys from his front pocket and dangled them, grinning madly.

"Welcome home, kiddo."


	5. September 2000

The most awesome thing about their new home was the two full bathrooms.

Sammy was practically a chick considering how much time he spent getting ready in the morning. Of course, that was to be expected when your little brother had a _My Little Pony_ mane of hair that had to be maintained.

Well, when you had a little brother that _used_ to have a _My Little Pony_ mane of hair anyways.

 _House Rules #26_ now prohibited said little brother from having hair longer than two inches above his shirt collar. Sam had tried unsuccessfully to argue the merits of that particular decree when Dad had sat them both down to go over the list of non-negotiable terms of their school year residence in Sioux Falls.

Sammy had bitched. John was unmoved. Sammy had crossed his arms and glared. John had crossed his and cocked a threatening eyebrow, and by the time it was all over, Sam's allowable hair length had been shortened by another inch.

Theoretically, the _House Rules_ were drawn up as security measures to appease John that his boys would be safe and careful in the first long term home they would be living in since the family house in Lawrence. They also contained a fair number of rules designed to impress upon Sam the reality that his upbringing, though strict in its own unique way, had been fairly lax as to a number of restrictions that _normal_ kids were subjected to by their parents.

Although Dean was pretty sure that Dad had added the haircut rule for his own amusement to just to piss Sam off.

To everyone's satisfaction, now that the boys had access to two showers in the small house, it meant that after their early morning run ( _House Rules #3_ ), Dean could jump in, wash up, and be dressed without needing to wait for Sam and his never-ending grooming regimen to finish. Which also meant a ceasefire to the daily fights between the brothers that usually ended up with threats, slammed doors, snapped towels and noogies.

The fact that the second full bath was down in their slightly _Silence of the Lambs_ style basement did nothing to dull Dean's happiness to use it.

What had been creatively described to him and Dad by the landlady as an 'in-law suite' was, in reality, a partially finished concrete room with a utilitarian toilet and shower room off to the side. Dean didn't know who these in-laws were, but he suspected that they were the kind you didn't want to feel welcomed.

Dean had been initially excited with the description of the house that claimed it to have three bedrooms. One the primary requirements of his _Sammy-is-normal_ plan was that his little brother finally have a room all of his own, without a father or big brother, or both, a foot away and tripping over each other. So he had been a little disappointed to see that the third bedroom was more of a hopeful concept of renovation than an actual room.

Surprisingly, Dad hadn't been too bent out of shape about it. Dean was already mentally measuring the smaller second floor bedroom to see if another bed could be added, perfectly willing to share a room with his old man during John's occasional stays. His father had point blank refused, reminding his eldest son that he had bunked down in worse places than a stark gray basement, only getting Dean to agree when John assured his boy that it wouldn't take much to fix it up a little.

Three weeks later, Dean was still having a hard time processing how grudgingly agreeable Dad had eventually become to considering the new living arrangement. Not that it hadn't taken some doing on Dean's part but, after the initial atomic bomb level blowout, John had surprised his oldest by pointing out several basic flaws in his plan that Dean had never even thought of.

The firstborn Winchester brother had never needed to have practical experience of setting up an actual long term residence, so it was a good thing that his father, although woefully out of practice as a civilian, still remembered the basics.

/

The night Dad and Bobby returned from the hunt that his father _still_ refused to talk about, Dean lay awake all night in a fretful and contemplative restlessness. Unlike Sammy, Dean had long ago learned how to feign sleep, so that his father and brother would never know how troubled his thoughts occasionally were in the dark hours of the night. It was laughable how unsuccessfully his little brother tried to trick Dean during fights at bedtime over the years.

Dean had been putting the kid to bed his entire life, and was usually sleeping inches away from him. He knew every breathing sound and facial twitch Sammy had. Little brother hadn't even been trying to hide his turmoil that night, and when he crawled out of bed and slipped downstairs, Dean was alert and trailing him instantly. John was clearly in a bad way, and the last thing their family needed that night was an emotionally turbocharged war between the oldest and youngest Winchesters.

Bobby's place was one of the closet things the boys had to a home growing up. With Pastor Jim's house and the Impala herself ranking neck and neck along with it. Dean knew every creaking floorboard and loose stair tread, and was as stealthy as a Navy SEAL, thanks to his father's training. He silently ghosted Sam's movements as he went down to the living room, taking pains to keep himself hidden. Normally, Dean would never willingly intrude on a private conversation between his father and brother, but Dad had him on edge with his erratic behavior that evening.

Between his father struggling to keep his panic in check, and Sammy's almost childlike hesitation and fear, Dean could barely draw enough air into his lungs to keep from passing out in the shadowy darkness of the hallway. He managed to dart back up to the shared bedroom before his little brother sneaked back in, smoothing out his breathing with a well practiced calming exercise, even as his body lay as tense as a bow string under the summer weight blanket.

After a while Sam had fallen into a fitful slumber, but Dean had lain awake and alert until the first rays of dawn filtered in through the faded bedroom curtains. Moving soundlessly, so as not to disturb what paltry rest his little brother was getting, Dean quickly donned his sweats and sneakers, and when Dad headed for the front door for his early morning run, his oldest son was dressed and waiting to join him.

They didn't speak as they stretched in the crisp morning air, the yard dogs idly watching them with minimal interest as they lazed about on the front porch. Years of habit kept their warm up in sync without needing to exchange words, and when they were limbered up, father and son shot off onto the road. They moved in unison as they ran, a companionable silence between them, a shared sense of urgency propelling them.

Dean welcomed the clarity of thought the adrenaline brought him, the feeling that at least this one thing was manageable, in control. They ran until his muscles burned and streams of heavy sweat pulled the whiskey out of John's system. The sun had moved noticeably higher on the horizon when they made it back to the salvage yard, the house quiet with the other occupants still asleep. John helped his son stretch as they cooled down and eventually they had dropped to sit side by side on the porch steps.

In silence, they contemplated their own thoughts, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of a passing car or chirping from the birds in the trees surrounding the yard. Dean didn't know how much time had passed as he struggled to approach his father with his concerns. He easily recognized the look on John's face as his dad absently twisted his wedding ring. A unconscious habit the man always had when he was beyond stressed about something.

Eventually, Dad had broken their quiet reverie by nudging Dean's knee, jerking his chin towards a group of banged up cars across the yard from the porch.

"You recognize that car, Son? Blue, second from the right."

Dean looked up and squinted in the sunlight, hesitating for the briefest of seconds before answering.

"Yes, sir. That's a seventy-two Camaro."

John had nodded, pride of his son's knowledge mingled with the sadness of painful memories. His smile was wistful as he clapped his son on the shoulder.

"Good job, Kiddo."

The heavy silence returned for a few more seconds, and Dean stared off into the distance before being brought back by his father's deep rumbling voice.

"Your mother had one just like it once."

Dean had turned towards his dad in surprise, because it was hard to get him to speak about Mom unless he was deep in a bottle with a boatload of tequila loosening his tongue. But one look on his father's face told Dean that he should shut his cakehole and let the man reminisce.

"She loved that thing. Every once in while, she would just take off for a few days. Even after you came along."

John threw his son an affectionate look when the boy started in surprise over that new tidbit of information. He winked, and nudged Dean's shoulder with his own.

"Bet you didn't know your old man occasionally had diaper duty with just you and me."

Startled, Dean shook his head, looking so achingly young that John reached over and ran a hand across the top of the boy's short cropped hair.

"Til you were about a year old. Then one day, she just stopped. Said it was time. I didn't know what she meant by it."

John's voice had an undertone of long term confusion as he turned away, rubbing his hands together, his brow furrowed in memories.

"Put the car up for sale, and we used the money to invest in the garage with Mike. She never talked about it again."

With that, John grew quiet again, and Dean wasn't going to push. These moments of caring and sharing about life _before_ were rare, and usually only reared themselves up during times of great turmoil in his dad's life.

Dean hadn't wanted to add to his father's worries, because God knew the man obviously had enough on his mind as it was. But John's heartfelt declarations to Sam in the late hours of the previous evening had unnerved Dean to the point that he instinctively knew that his window of opportunity to make his case was rapidly closing.

Dad was scared. Not just scared, _petrified_. Of what, his oldest son had no idea, but he needed to man up and take a last stand before John bolted again, taking his kids with him to parts unknown and destroying all possibility of the carefully constructed proposal that had been at the forefront of Dean's mind since the car ride to Blue Earth.

He had practiced a dozen time as to how he would broach the topic. What persuasive opening salvo he could volley that would sway his unbending father to positively consider his words. As Dean grew older, John was taking his son's opinions on jobs seriously because he respected the hunter that Dean was becoming.

When it came to Sam, their dad was less likely to yield, even though Dean knew that John was perfectly aware of how much better his oldest was in tune with his youngest. Whether it was a fear of losing his hold over his children, or a reluctance to acknowledge them as growing up, Dean didn't know. What he did know was that Sam was slowly but surely slipping away from them, and Dean couldn't imagine a life without his little brother by his side.

John was staring off into the distance as they sat, shoulders touching, his hair as dark and wild as Sam's ever was. Dean nervously rubbed his damp palms on the sides of his sweats, fingers clenching repeatedly in the soft folds of the fabric, until his father looked over at him expectantly. Calmly waiting against the backdrop of sunrise for his son to finally speak his mind. Dean had swallowed hard and braced himself for the fallout.

"Dad, we're gonna lose Sammy."

After that, the rest of that morning had been a surreal blur. That one simple sentence brought a raging river of emotions flooding over his father's face. Dean had begun speaking quickly, his practiced arguments spilling out of his mouth in an emotional ramble that tripped over his tongue without his consent or any rhyme or reason. The whole plan burst out of him like a punch, and when he was finally spent, he quieted, chest heaving and begging with his eyes for understanding while his father sat in a speechless daze.

For about five seconds.

Then John had raged. He roared, _literally_ roared. He was furious by what he perceived to be Dean's betrayal of going behind his back and making plans for the brothers without even attempting to consult him. The earlier peace of their shared morning forgotten, a string of vicious and unfounded accusations spewed forth from his mouth, laying waste to his firstborn. Dean had physically reeled from each verbal blow, like a punch drunk boxer on his last leg in the ring. Unable to fight back and curling in on himself to protect whatever vital organs he could from the onslaught.

When the _Dad_ in John regained control, his son was a shuddering mess, unable to meet his father's eyes. Holding his gut with both arms as he sat hunched on the stair, swallowing repeatedly as he struggled to regain his composure. Whispering crushing, desperate apologies, and watery pleas for understanding. Looking so much like a kicked pup that a wave of stomach acid burned its way up John's throat from the guilt of his attack.

Dean had been petrified to even suggest such drastic action. John had heard it in his boy's voice as it quivered with a wet undercurrent of tears when he told his father what the man had already known.

That they were in danger of losing their youngest. That Sammy needed to be kept safe and close to them.

John's own fears released themselves in the wholly brutal tirade he had lashed out at his son. Blind panic that their world as a family was shifting, and the Winchester patriarch didn't seem to be able to wrest control over that eventuality from anyone including, apparently, his kids.

Almost immediately, John had reined his anger back in. Faced with the devastation and defeat on his son's beautiful young face, looking so much like his mother that it physically hurt, he had reached out to put an arm around his boy's shaking shoulders and drew him close, relieved when Dean allowed it without a trace of recrimination in his eyes.

Because that's what his child always did. Dean was the family sounding board. The means through which the oldest and youngest Winchesters vented their multitude of frustrations over life in general. They ranted and raved and laid all of their accumulated crap at Dean's feet for him to sort out and deal with, because that was what they had come to expect.

It took a lot of energy to stand on the moral high ground, after all, and usually John and Sam couldn't be bothered with other things.

And Dean had always accommodated them, pushing aside his own frustrations and fears for the good of the family, and refusing to see the damage it was doing to his own psyche. Because denial was a river in Egypt, and Dean Winchester was its King.

Hot tempered, loose tongued and occasionally mean spirited, John and Sam both had a bad tendency to lash out at the one person who lived for their happiness and safety. John wasn't so obtuse that he didn't see it happen, didn't feel the heavy weight of guilt that came from unloading his stress driven anxiety on his oldest son. Because deep down he knew that Dean would always forgive him. Always excuse the lapses in John's tenuous grip on fatherhood because his firstborn had nothing but unconditional love for his father and little brother.

Even when, _especially when_ , they didn't deserve it. Dean's singular regard for his family was absolute and unwavering.

Ultimately, that was what had turned the tide for John that early morning.

The _Marine_ turned _Hunter_ kicked in. Always calculating and planning, John backed down, for the first time _ever_ , and consented to the overall idea. If his agreement came after his son's fervent assurances that Dean had spoken of his plans with absolutely _no one_ until approaching his dad, John wouldn't admit that to anyone. It didn't speak to John's credit if he admitted that his anger was partially fueled by originally suspecting that others in their family circle were aware of the idea before he himself was privy.

By the time Bobby was awake and brewing coffee, John was fine tuning some of the logistics and adding many conditions of his own. Bobby's offer of his own place was politely declined, but he did have a contact for housing. A woman nearby was renting out a house that her tenant had recently vacated because of a job transfer. She knew the score on hunting because the ghost of her teenage son had been haunting her for almost a year after his death in a car accident. Bobby had salted and burned the bones of the boy when he had become vengeful. The salvage man had given her _The Talk_ , and kept in touch for the past few years.

Now moving with purpose, John strong armed an early morning showing with the landlady, who was flirted with and flattered into a small monthly discount by John's considerable charm, and the added incentive of the roll of bills for first and last that he had acquired through the risky maneuver of cash advances from his two current credit cards.

Dean had felt guilty from the knowledge of how strapped for funds his father would be for a while after maxing out his current credit, but Dad had insisted, stressing to his son in no uncertain terms that he would be covering the monthly rent for his kids. Nothing was going to induce Dean to strip his father of the man's pride, so he hadn't pushed, comforted with the assurance that his father would be saving on his own motel expenses with an occasional stay at the house.

Because he had already spent the past few weeks in the planning stages, Dean had been aggressively hustling to build up a bankroll, taking some considerable chances that would have earned him ear blistering reprimands if his father had any idea of how fast and loose he had been playing. It had been his intention to present the idea to his father as a _fait accompli,_ proving that the finances were manageable, but John was firm about how much he would be covering himself.

There were still plenty of other expenses for Dean to worry about.

For safety reasons, Sam was enrolled in a private Catholic school with a manageable tuition that could be paid on a monthly basis. Dean had taken a stab at working up a rough budget, and the school could be afforded if they scrimped. The house was partially furnished, and they would be able to make do until they could slowly acquire extras. The utilities were all on budget plans, and their landlady had consented to pay the monthly water bill in exchange for the boys mowing her grass and shoveling her drive when it snowed.

The boys would spend the school week at home in Sioux Falls, following the _House Rules_ and keeping up with their daily training regimen. On the weekends they would drive to meet John to back him up on hunts if he was within a reasonable distance.

Dean was pretty confident that his father would ensure that he would be relatively close by for the duration of the year, and it was this thought that had the older brother hoping that maybe time and distance during the week would lessen the tensions between his two family members. Enough that when Sam graduated, his resentment of John and Dean and their life together as a family wouldn't be strong enough to make him run away again.

Money was going to be tight. Fraudulent cards wouldn't fly in a town where they were establishing a permanent residence. Hustling locally wasn't an option either, although the weekend trips would hopefully bring opportunity for extra cash. Dean had known he would need to find a real job, and he was happy to do it if it meant keeping Sammy close and making the kid smile. He satisfied himself that he could hunt on the weekends, needing it like he needed oxygen.

But his brother came first.

Originally, Dean had planned on applying at a few of the local garages, because Dad had taught him everything there was to know about cars and he loved to work on them, but then Bobby offered to employ him at the salvage yard. It wasn't a pity employment, no matter what Dean originally suspected.

When he voiced this concern, Bobby had whipped his ball cap off and smacked the back of Dean's head with it, telling the boy with the cripplingly low self esteem that his yard was chock full of vehicles itching to be rebuilt and sold for a good chunk of cash, and that Dean wasn't just as good as his daddy, he was _better_. A goddamn _genius_ of Auto Mechanics, and the fervent declaration had caused Dean's entire face and neck to blush crimson.

With that settled, Dean had a steady paycheck that was probably more than generous under the circumstances. A boss that would understand Dean's need to work around a school schedule and a hunting trip. As well as a work space where he could wear his Colt without a problem, in the safety of a heavily warded environment.

It was this last perk that had John biting his tongue about the jealousy he was harboring over the idea that it wouldn't him working side by side with his boy on a rebuild.

The safety of his children trumped John's need to be the center of their universe. In another life, one where there were no fires or demons or evil, John would have passed his garage down to his talented eldest. If that was what Dean had wanted. Or he would have proudly paid for his firstborn to go to college and become an engineer or architect or whatever else might have caught his fancy, because Dean was every bit as smart as Sammy and could have been anything besides the highly capable hunter he was evolving into.

In another life, John would have not only supported Sam's passion for soccer, he would have volunteered to coach the team. He would have cheered him on at the academic competitions that his youngest always seemed to qualify for, but could never attend because they would move again before they were held. John would struggle and puzzle like any parent trying to help his kid with book reports and test reviews instead of yelling and threatening orders over research.

Those possibilities were forever lost, but he could still give his boys this one year of stability.

/

Dean heard the upstairs shower turn off, propelling him to amble into the kitchen to make breakfast. Even Princess Samuela would be done primping by the time the food was cooked, and big brother was going to make sure that the string bean ate a decent meal on his first day at the new school. He was still getting used to the concept of cooking full meals, finally having an actual kitchen instead of a motel kitchenette with a hot plate.

By the time Sam came tromping down the stairs, hefting his new backpack already full to bursting, with what exactly, Dean had no clue, the whole house was blanketed in the heady aroma of breakfast. Sam loped into the kitchen, dropped his backpack on one of the chairs and pulled open the fridge, grabbing the juice carton and taking a long swig as he stood standing with the door open. Immediately, Dean's hand came up and cuffed his brother on the back of his head.

"Glass!"

"Ow!" Sam protested, scowling as he rubbed the sting away. "What was that for?"

It's not like his big brother hadn't done that little maneuver himself a million times over the years. At least Sam was careful not to backwash, unlike Dean who was so gross sometimes that Sam would drink questionable tap water over what was lurking in the motel mini-fridges.

"You weren't raised in a barn, Sammy," Dean grumbled, snagging a clean glass from the cabinet and shoving at him.

Sam huffed derisively and rolled his eyes. _Pretty close to it sometimes_ , he thought uncharitably, even as he filled the glass from the container he still held.

"We're _respectable_ now," Dean informed him, the lilt in his voice a tad on the grandiose side as he scooped food from the pans on the stove onto two plates.

There was a huge shit eating grin on his big brother's face as he placed the plates on the table, and Sam couldn't help but laugh as he replaced the juice container and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter. Flopping down in his usual chair, he took one look at the breakfast in front of him and felt his stomach flip from the heavy duty case of nerves that had been slowly building up since he first woke up. Groaning a little, he pushed the plate away, eliciting a frown from his brother.

"Eat, Sam."

Dean's voice was patient, but unyielding. Sam peeked up at him from under his bangs, still long enough to cover his eyes even though the back was cut short, puppy dog eyes in full force.

"My stomach is queasy," he said, trying to keep the whine out of his voice and failing. "Besides," he countered, glancing at the wall clock, "we're going to be late."

Big brother had been dealing with Sam's petulance since the kid was in diapers, so he wasn't fooled. He tapped meaningfully on the side of the plate before fixing himself a cup of coffee.

"You're nervous, not sick. We have plenty of time. And _everyone_ loves bacon, Sammy. _Eat_."

Defeated, Sam picked up the fork and threw his brother his best bitchface, scooping up some scrambled eggs and forcing them in his mouth. If he was inwardly pleased that Dean had made them with milk, the way Sam liked them, he wasn't going to let it show, because his brother was a pushy jerk and wasn't going to get the satisfaction of being right.

He let out an affronted sniff, annoyed because his brother just smiled at him knowingly, and then grabbed two pieces of bacon from Dean's plate and shoved them in his mouth, daring the older boy to do something about it.

"Like I wasn't expecting that." Dean smirked and went back to the stove, pulling more bacon strips from the pan to throw on his own plate before dumping the rest on his brother's. "Who do you think you are dealing with here, kiddo?"

Fifteen minutes later, Dean herded his little brother into the car, bulging backpack and all, and headed towards the school. Sam had grown pensive in the passenger seat, subconsciously resisting the urge to chew on his pinkie nail as he picked at an invisible thread on his new khakis. Dean glanced over and smiled at the kid, looking sharp and grown up in his new threads.

That was another benefit of the private school. Uniforms. Pale blue polo shirts with the school crest and khakis for the boys in the warmer months, with v-neck pullover sweaters with the crest for the winter. Everyone dressed the same, and there would be no visual clues that Sam's family wasn't materially well off. Which was one of the things Dean knew his little brother was self conscious about at every new school they had attended.

Sam had always hated the stigma that had come with thrift store clothes that might have already been passed down from his older brother in the first place. The shirts and khakis had been another expense, but Dean had it covered, and even had enough left in the clothing budget he had put aside to get Sam some new street wear to use on his downtime. Just some basics from the local Target, but they were brand new, and not necessarily the usual sturdy hunter's gear. It was important that Sam feel like a _normal_ kid Monday thru Friday.

Dean pulled the Impala into the school parking lot at precisely 7:45. The first bell was at 8:00 and classes went until 2:45. There was an extracurricular period from 3:00 to 3:45, and then a second one from 4:00 to 4:45. Dean would return at precisely 5:00 to pick Sam up, and not a minute later. _House Rules #15._

He glided the car over to the drop off curb, and put the gear shift in park, letting Baby's engine idle. Sam was still in the passenger seat, staring at the front door of the school like he was getting ready to go to the dentist's office. Clearly, big brother was going to have to shove him a little out the door.

"Got your books?"

"Yeah."

"Pencils?"

"Yeah."

"Knife?"

"Dean..."

"Geek boy pocket protector?"

" _ _Dean__.."

Sam turned around and shot him a heated scowl, but at least the kid had stopped the wary stalker stare at the door. There were a few dozen other students milling around the entrance, smiling and talking. As the car purred, a group of very pretty young ladies in sinfully short plaid skirts bounced by Sam's window and Dean wagged his eyebrows at his brother suggestively.

"Catholic schoolgirls, Sammy. Every teenage boy's wet dream. Go get'em, Romeo. Make the Winchester name proud."

Sam glared with the long practiced impatience over his brother's general male slutty behavior. Dean just grinned, because he loved to get his prudish little brother riled up. One of these days the kid was going to realize that he had grown out of the awkward _nerd_ _in the short body_ phase, and into a fairly decent looking guy.

Not as devilishly handsome as his older brother, of course, because there were only just so many hot genes for their parents to pass on, and Dean was claiming the lion's share for himself.

But the younger boy was obviously nervous and struggling with the ability to open the freakin' door, so Dean decided to back off.

"Yeah, okay, Sammy. But you do have your knife though, right?"

Dean's voice went from teasing to serious, his little brother's ability to defend himself primary on his list of concerns. Not that Sammy really needed the knife to protect himself. Underneath his gangling, shy, cherubic-like exterior, Sam Winchester possessed a large repertoire of self defense skills that would make grown men wary.

"Yeah, Dean, I've got it," he sighed, avoiding his brother's penetrating stare and gazing out the window towards the flood of other students.

He didn't want to let his big brother see the wave of anxiety that passed over his face as he realized that there would be no second chances to make a first impression this year. That had been the one check mark in the plus column of their frequent moves.

There had been instances at various schools when things hadn't gone well, because kids could be cruel to outsiders, and Sam was nerdy and quiet, usually keeping to himself. There had been a lot of teasing over the years that developed into something more aggressive. The only comforting thought at times like that had been the certainty that he would be leaving soon.

Dean reached into his back pocket and grabbed his wallet. Pulling a twenty from the billfold, he shoved it towards Sam.

"Here's a couple of bucks for lunch. Make sure you eat something, okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but he took the offered bill and smiled. "Yeah, I will. Thanks."

At a loss of what else to say, Dean absently rubbed his hands on the steering wheel. Sam was looking at the school as if he were a man on his way to his execution now. For some reason, Dean had been sure that his little brother would have leaped from the car like a gazelle as soon as they pulled into the parking lot.

"You know, Sammy, you don't have to do this if you don't want to, " he started cautiously, trying hard to gauge his brother's mood. "Just say the word, kiddo. It's not too late to change your mind."

Finally startled out of his thoughts, Sam looked at his older brother as if he had just sprouted another head.

"What? _No_. No, I want to do this, Dean," he responded quickly, his voice taking on a slightly higher pitch in its insistence.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Dean sought to calm the kid down.

"Alright, no need to get your panties in a twist. Just don't want you to feel like you don't have a choice here."

Sam took a deep breath, relaxing a little. His brother always had his back, no matter what. Even with all Dean had been forced to do to get Dad to agree to this arrangement, with all the work it had taken to get the little rented house set up, Sam knew that if he did say the word, his brother would pack everything up and take him back to join their father without a word of complaint.

He had always put Sam's wants and needs first, regardless of what it did to him personally. The knowledge of that lifelong constant both warmed Sam's heart and crushed him with guilt.

"Well, go if you're going then, Sammy. Can't have you late on your first day."

"It's __Sam__ ," the boy insisted, the dark eyebrows on his elfin face narrowed in irritation.

"Yeah, whatever, bitch," Dean teased smirking, gently shoving his little brother towards the door.

Sam scowled and shoved back. "Cut it out, jerk," he hissed as he grabbed for the door handle.

"Hey!" Dean called as Sam got out of the car. "Remember, I'll be here at five, so don't keep me waiting."

Sam sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I know," he answered wearily, bristling at reminder of the laundry list of rules that John had drummed into both of their heads over the last few weeks.

The blatant unfairness of them smacked Sam in the face every time he had to obey one. When Dean was seventeen, he had already been in charge of them both, on his own, for weeks at time, for __years__. Sam, it seemed, was now incapable of getting himself home from school on his own these days, even though an activities bus could drop him off a block from their house.

"Have fun, Sammy," Dean said, his voice much more soft than before.

Sam gave him a half smile, his hazel green eyes lighting up for the first time that morning in appreciation of all that his brother was doing to make today possible.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Both brothers knew that the two little words held more meaning than just appreciation of Dean's previous sentiment.

Dean watched the kid's retreating back until Sam was at the entrance. His little brother, ever the gentleman held open the door for two of the girls from the little gaggle that had passed by earlier, and they smiled hugely at him, clearly appreciative of his thoughtfulness and cute face. Even from the distance, Dean could see his brother blush, but he also smiled back and chatted with them as he followed them inside.

"That's my boy."

Dean smiled fondly, and put the car in gear, driving slowly to make one full pass of the school grounds as he scanned the area to make sure that he didn't catch any hint of a threat.

He and Dad had already scoped out the entire campus on more than one occasion in the previous weeks to get a good feel for the layout, because one could never be too cautious. Finally satisfying himself that Sam was as safe as he was going to get today, he pulled back out into the street, the Impala's engine growling as it tore up the asphalt underneath him.

/

John's whole body was thrumming with a caffeine buzz as he drove. It was a long drive to New Mexico, but Singer had been insistent that the Navajo seer he had dealings with in the past might be able to work a ritual giving them insight as to the demon's cryptic and disturbing rants. John hadn't wanted to be so far away from his kids right now, and his frenzy to keep close to them had him struggling to make the trip.

In the end, his desperate need for information won out. He had left his boys as safe as they could be anywhere at the moment, except for right at his side. The knowledge that their long term safety depended on his ability to permanently neutralize the threat against his youngest son was currently superseding all other desires he had for their well being and immediate proximity.

The threats to his kids weren't just strictly arbitrary anymore. If the black eyed bastard was to be believed, however minutely, Hell itself was circling for his Sammy, like vultures about to descend on carrion. The boys needed more than salt lines and cats eye shells and the generalized hope that bouncing around enough would slow down any filth that hunted the little family.

As much as John disliked the idea of them stationary at the little house in Sioux Falls, _and really, the entire concept made his trigger finger twitchy,_ at least the place could be protected far more than a random motel room.

John was pretty sure that they had wiped out the neighborhood Walmart of its cheap area rugs. Every room in the little house had one. Not for aesthetic reasons, of course, although they did warm up the overall look of the place. They also covered the carefully spray painted devil's traps that now graced as much of the floor space as John could manage. If one of Hell's minions did manage to infiltrate his children's home, the bastard wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon.

A sympathetic landlady also meant that John had no compunction about carving a multitude of warding and protection sigils in the wooden trim that ran around the edges of the doors, ceilings and floors. Dean had been adamant about keeping the visible damage to a minimum. A stubborn insistence that had made John's temper flare in annoyance over the boy's priorities but, eventually, his son's calm reasoning had reminded John that while Sammy's safety was paramount, there was also the equally important consideration of keeping him with them.

Sam might balk at feeling comfortable inviting friends home if the place looked like something the Manson family might live in. And while John was perfectly okay with his youngest not encouraging strangers visiting the house, he had grudgingly agreed with Dean that it was far better that whatever socializing Sammy did was better engaged in at the protected house rather than somewhere else that could leave him vulnerable.

Thick salt lines had permanent residence artfully hidden behind sheer drapes on all the windows. A handful of ceramic beaded rosaries thrown into the house's water tank with the appropriate blessings ensured that his boys would be drinking and bathing in holy water all year. Dean knew to offer any visiting school friend a nice glass of ice water to welcome kids into their home.

Sam himself now sported a silver bracelet _(House Rules #21_ ) that he was forbidden by his father to remove which bore the marking of Saint Amabilis of Riom on the front. The patron saint against fires and snakebites, he was also invoked against demonic possession. During John's meeting with Sam's school principal, it had been made extremely clear that his son be allowed to wear it at all times. Sam's mother had died in a fire when he was an infant, it was explained, and the boy's comfort and spirituality depended on the security the medal brought him.

Faced with such a firm and determined demand, the principal had consented, quite possibly because John Winchester's basic presence could scare the shit out of any normal man. John didn't feel the need to inform the priest that the underside of the flat silver badge contained actual anti-possession engravings, and not the just theoretical hope of them.

He couldn't remember the last time he had met with a school official for one of his boys. They moved so much that there wasn't usually time for any reason to get friendly with the locals. Dean had the drill down to a science when it came to enrolling himself and his brother by the time he was eleven years old. John didn't let himself often dwell on the niggling little fact that he dumped all of the school responsibilities on his oldest son.

Dean's suggestion of Holy Rosary Academy for his brother had been nothing short of brilliant on the boy's part, John had to admit. He wouldn't have given a moment's consideration to his kids staying put for a year without his eldest son's convincing argument about the increase in Sam's overall safety from the supernatural by being a student at a school with the unique feature of having the entire campus built on consecrated ground.

Apparently Singer had mentioned it once, out of hand, as an unusual occurrence, and Dean, sponge that his was, had filed away that trivia for later use. Even Catholic schools were just regular run of the mill buildings for the most part, but Holy Rosary Academy was physically connected to the church that gave it its name. The church also had crypts underneath its floor, thus demanding consecration of the grounds surrounding them.

It was a layer of protection that was rare, and the practical side of John couldn't dismiss it. Especially with this new knowledge breathing down his neck.

As the Sierra ate up the miles, John felt the deep ache in his gut from missing his boys. Honestly, he didn't think they had any idea how much it tore him up to be constantly separated from them. There were simply no easy answers for his little family.

What was he supposed to do, the day after watching his wife burn on the ceiling? Should he have accepted the official explanation of bad wiring in the house, like the fire inspector desperately tried to drive down his throat?

It didn't take the fire in Lawrence to convince John that the average person naturally had a mental default to simply explain away the horrible things in life that they weren't capable of comprehending. The things he had seen in Vietnam made shells of men who lost their tenuous grips on sanity there. He had struggled with it himself, and it had only been his beautiful Mary that had become the calm in his storm.

After her death, when all concept of rationality had flown out the window like a monsoon, there had simply been no choice for him. It wasn't just her death that had paralyzed him in terror. She had burned in their baby boy's bedroom, and John had never been able to shake the lingering dread that lurked in the corner of his mind that the evil that had claimed her wasn't there solely for his wife.

John's actions since that fateful night had been not just for the resolution of his wife's murder, because she was dead and there was no changing that fact, and _yes_ , she would be avenged. But his living children needed his protection more, and he needed them to be able to protect themselves. Because he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that he wouldn't never make it through the unendurable agony of losing one of his babies.

The moment those two beautiful creatures had been placed in his arms, he swore to each of them in their turn that he would be the best father he could be. He knew what a bad father was like, because he had had one. So when Mike and Kathy had begun to not-so-subtly suggest that he leave the boys with them if he was determined to chase down some crazy idea of what had actually started the fire, he grabbed his children with both hands and walked away.

Henry Winchester may have abandoned his son, but John wasn't his father, and he would never walk away from his boys.

John rubbed his eyes as he noticed the sign for the upcoming travel center. He was fairly broke at the moment, having used all his available credit for the house, but he was okay with that. More than okay, because as long as his kids had a comfortable roof over their heads, it was more than he could ask in life most days.

He still had a card designated solely for gas, and enough cash for some cheap food. It wouldn't be the first time he slept in his car for a couple of weeks. The travel centers catered to truck drivers, and for a few bucks, he could grab a shower every couple of days. One of the benefits of driving to New Mexico was that he had two new cards that would be showing up any day at the latest post office box in Colorado. If he was lucky, he could hit it on the way back and be flush again.

Against his will, his thoughts kept returning to his absentee father. John barely remembered him by that point. It's not like five year olds had a particularly large capacity for long term memories, and if it wasn't for the occasional lapse in thought that had him humming that damn song from his old music box, he probably wouldn't even remember as much as he did.

What he did know was that Henry had devastated John's mother. She spent the next twenty years of her life blaming herself for his disappearing act. _If_ _only_ she had been a better wife. _If_ _only_ she had kept a tidier house. John still gritted his teeth over that one, because his mother was an impeccable housekeeper and you could eat off the goddamn floors. Millie belonged to a generation where women were taught to consider themselves less than if they were not the perfect wives and mothers.

The scandal of being abandoned by her husband had broken her. Ultimately, unable to withstand the stigma of being a social pariah, she had packed up their home in Normal, and moved John back to her parent's home in Lawrence. Even there she had be the subject of ridicule, because her marital status was in question. Henry never even had the decency to formally apply for divorce, and eventually, Millie had been able to have her marriage terminated on the basis of abandonment.

When John was ten, Millie married a former schoolmate from her high school days. John's stepfather was a good man, even if Millie's parents looked down on him for being a loud, brash and decidedly blue collar mechanic. Henry Winchester had been cultured and well educated, presenting himself as the perfect gentleman, and even through his desertion, he still set the bar in what they had wanted to see in a son-in-law.

John had loved his mother's second husband. For all of their fights and clashes in temper, his stepfather was stable, a good provider, and he took a fatherless boy under his wing and taught John everything that a father should. John would have been honored to take his name, but Millie had been insistent that he stay a Winchester. John's stepfather had never pushed the issue, but John knew it had hurt the man deep down to be denied.

To make up for it, John turned his back on his biological father's seemingly refined and educated background, choosing to eschew college for the military. If college educated men walked away from their families without a backwards glance, John didn't plan on becoming one of them. He survived the war, went home and worked hard. He married his love and doted on his kids.

And when his entire world blew up in front of him, he clutched his children in his arms and never looked back. Nothing would have ever induced him to leave them behind. John wasn't Henry, and never would be.

With his thoughts of family restlessly churning in his head, John glanced at his watch and realized that it was already late morning. He knew that Sammy was starting his first day of school today and he had meant to call Dean and make sure that everything had gone smoothly. He dug his cell from his pants pocket and hit the first speed dial, not surprised when his son picked up on the first ring.

" _Hey, Dad_ ," Dean answered cheerfully, and John had to smile from the warmth he heard in his son's tone.

"Hey, Kiddo. How's everything going?"

" _Yeah, everything's good, Dad. How about with you_?"

"I'm on my way to New Mexico to talk to that seer Bobby mentioned. Then I'm meeting up with Caleb. We're going to check out a possible angry spirit outside of Denver. Should be routine. Caleb's only joining me because he has a new source for some good lore books that we're gonna stop by to see on the way back to Lincoln."

John forced his mouth shut because he knew that he was rambling. Something he only did when he was nervous, and his eldest son knew it, but fortunately Dean didn't call him on it.

"Hopefully, we'll be back to his place by Friday. If we are, I'll be expecting you boys to meet up with us there," John ordered, a little more gruffly than he had intended.

" _Yes, sir. We will_ ," Dean answered smartly, ever the obedient soldier.

A few tense seconds of silence passed before John manage to speak again. A little more softly this time, leaving Dean in no doubt that this was the true reason for the call.

"Did Sammy get off to school this morning okay?"

John could swear that he heard Dean smile on the other side of the line. Kid knew his old man better than anyone. _Little shit_ , he thought fondly.

" _Yes, sir. Took him myself and stayed to make sure that he was out of harm's way before I left_."

"That's my boy," John said, his voice warm with affection for his son.

" _Ooh, Dad, you should have seen the hotties at Sammy's school. Kid is in for a great time this year_."

That did get a laugh out of John, because his oldest was randy little bugger. If Dean didn't have at least one kid out there somewhere, John would eat Bobby's grubby ball cap.

"Listen, Dean, I gotta go, but I'll see you boys in a few days. Watch out for Sammy, kiddo. I'm counting on you."

" _Yes, sir._ _You know I will_ _._ _Take care of yourself, Dad_."

"Yeah, you too, Son."

John ended the call just in time to signal his exit for the travel center. He needed a hot shower and a quick bite to settle the caffeinated acid in his stomach. His kids were counting on him to keep them safe, and he would.

Or he would die trying.

/

Holy Rosary Academy was one of the nicer schools Sam had ever been able to attend. The architecture was an eclectic mix of classic Gothic wood and modern glass and chrome. He wouldn't have thought that the two mediums of design could compliment each other, but somehow they worked here. Obviously, when building the school, someone had paid a lot of money for the talent that created it.

It was a good size in student body as well. Big enough that it offered a large list of extracurricular activities, but still small enough that the student/teacher ratio allowed a lot of individual attention. The classes were competitive, offering AP everything, college prep courses and hard working student advisers. The school had a near perfect graduation rate, and the percentage of seniors that were accepted at their first pick universities was blindingly high.

As he walked along the pristine hallway, he felt like he was in a dream. Just a few weeks ago, he had been depressed. Struggling for a way to get himself out of the hunting life without decimating his family in the process. All Dean had said, as they stood in the living room of what was now their home for the year, was that sometimes birthday wishes did come true.

Sam had never loved his big brother more than he had in that moment.

He didn't know how he would ever begin to repay his brother for making this happen. He wasn't selfish enough to not know what it was costing Dean personally. It wasn't even about all the money it was going to take every month for all of the expenses they were going to have, because his big brother had always made sure that they were okay when Dad wasn't around. In the end, it was really more about what it was costing Dean mentally and emotionally.

As much as Sam hated it, his brother lived for the hunt. Not like Dad did, because for John it was all about revenge. For Dean it was about helping people, and there wasn't any other way to look at it. He could say that it was about revenge for Mom all he wanted to, but Sam knew him better than that. What Dean really meant when he talked about doing it for Mom, was doing it for _Dad_. Because Dad would never rest until he fulfilled his mission, and Dean wanted his living parent alive and safe.

So if that meant hunting until their mother's killer was taken down, then that is what Dean would do.

Until then, Dean would hunt to save people he didn't even know, because that's just who he was. He watched out for everyone. Took care of everyone. Even when it was at his own expense. Sam most of all. Sam didn't even know what it had taken to convince Dad to allow this to happen, but he suspected that it had come at the price of another chunk of his brother's heart at some point in the process. All Sam could do now was work his ass off to make his brother proud of the sacrifices he was making.

Dad had been different lately too.

After that one scary night, Sam had gotten more and more glimpses of the father that John must have been before the fire. Not in any dramatic _turn over a new leaf_ kind of way. More like a _this is the person I used to be and I haven't quite forgotten completely_ kind of way. Not that Sam hadn't been pleased by the new insight into his father's latent personality, but it actually made him sad to realize how different things might have been between the two of them under different circumstances.

Sam didn't want all of the fighting and tension between them, but most of the time he just couldn't help it. He felt himself being so angry all of the time at his dad, and he usually couldn't even explain why. The anger was just there, lying in wait under the surface of their interactions. The last few weeks, as he watched his father help them set up the house, painting the trim work and even _fucking_ _mowing the lawn_ , it had been like watching some kind of parody of their lives where John Winchester was just a regular dad.

And it broke Sam's heart a little.

Dad had even brought him to school for his interview, which had been mind blowingly surreal. Of course, he was sure that his father had ulterior motives because, seriously, Sam wasn't buying the idea that Dad had wanted a tour of the grounds to see the architectural attributes. There was paperwork involved, and Dean had joined them too, because there were now legitimate documents that listed his big brother as an additional legal guardian of Sam in their father's absence. John had made sure that there would be no questions regarding Dean's ability to act in his stead in case of a problem.

That was another new thing for Sam to wrap his head around.

Not like his brother hadn't been playing the role for years already, but there was something decidedly different about it being done above board. When Sam had asked his brother why such a drastic measure was enacted now so late in the game, Dean didn't have a satisfactory answer to give. Only that Dad had insisted, and Sam was pretty sure that his brother was joining in his worry about exactly why their father suddenly felt the need to make sure everything was neat and tidy without requiring his presence.

The documents themselves were another intriguing piece to the puzzle. Occasionally hunters needed the real deal for one reason or another, although most of them were quite talented in skirting the usual legal requirements on a job. Dad's hunting buddy Travis, who both the brothers had met on several occasions, had a brother of his own who was a lawyer. He didn't hunt, but he did work for hunters when they needed it. It had been a sort of epiphany for Sam, and he was beginning to wonder if that is how he could finally find his place in his father's and brother's world without having to pick up a machete himself.

It was a new world with exciting possibilities, and Sam was beginning to see light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.

/

The house still reeked of burnt chicken and barbecue sauce, no matter how much air freshener Sam had sprayed after dinner. As he sat at the kitchen table and worked on his homework, he smiled because Dean was trying so hard to cook new things for them.

"Sonofabitch! My eyes are watering."

Dean was at the kitchen door that led to their decent sized back yard. Attempting to vent the lingering smokey smell, he was pushing the door open and closed repeatedly.

"Aww, it's okay, big brother. You'll make someone a pretty little wife someday. Don't worry."

Sam's eyes were twinkling mischievously as he teased his brother, who immediately threw a dishtowel at his head.

"Shut your face."

There was no heat in Dean's words, and his mouth was turned up in a crooked little grin as he took the teasing in stride. Sam smiled to himself because his brother had been more lighthearted than usual since they moved in and, inwardly, he was pleased to see that maybe this plan was going to be good for Dean too.

Giving up the hope of clear air for the moment, Dean shut the door and locked it up tight, years of ingrained habit working from muscle memory. He sat down at the table and gave the pile of books spread around his little brother an incredulous stare.

"Man. That much homework on the first day? I would feel bad for you, but this is probably a wish come true in your world."

Sam rolled his eyes and finished the review sheet he had been filling out, neatly putting that section away in his bag. Actually, his assigned work had been done for an hour already, but it never hurt to get ahead.

"All AP classes, Dean," he reminded his brother. _Plus the Latin that Dad's making me take_.

Dean just shook his head and got up from the table to grab a beer out of the fridge.

"Well, whatever it is, it's time to put it away. It's almost ten, dude."

Sam huffed and reluctantly began to load everything into his bulging backpack. _House Rules #12_ was the most ridiculous one of them all.

"This is so stupid. Since when does Dad care what time we go to bed?"

Dean laughed as he walked into the living room and turned on the TV that Bobby had lent them. He flopped down on the couch and put his feet on the coffee table as he looked for the right channel.

"Since he told you to hit the rack at eleven and you argued with him," Dean reminded his stubborn little brother. "It's your fault it's ten now, Sammy."

The discussion of _House Rules #12_ had been another pissing contest that Sam had lost, just like the haircuts. Fortunately, he had managed to keep his mouth shut about the rest of the rules because clearly Dad hadn't been messing around.

"Yeah, if you live in Donna Reed world," Sam grumped, heading for the stairs.

Dean had already made it clear that Dad's rules were going to be enforced to the letter. Although he had also casually bought Sam a new high powered flashlight. Reminding his little brother pointedly that the rule only required Sam to be in bed with the lights off by ten. Not that he had to be asleep.

"Besides," Dean continued, taking a large swig of beer. "Now that we have to have our happy asses up by oh-five-thirty to run in the morning, I'll probably be going to bed right behind you."

Sam had to agree with that one. They had a five mile run to do every morning before school, plus their full drill of PT before dinner. Sam had also tried out for the soccer team today, and if he made it, it was going to mean practice three times a week for that as well. The extra sleep was starting to not look so bad. From the television, Sam heard the telltale sounds of the _Law and Order: SVU_ chimes.

"Now get out of here, Sammy. Mariska and I need some alone time."

Sam shook his head as he smiled at his big brother, who was wagging his eyebrows lasciviously. As he headed upstairs, he could hear Dean enjoying the beginning of the show.

"Oof, Detective Benson. You naughty little minx. I'd let you cuff me anytime."

Entering his bedroom, Sam flipped on the overhead light and reached into the dresser to get a clean tee and sleep pants. His room wasn't anything fancy. Just a double bed with a slightly scarred antique wood frame. A dresser with a decent sized mirror attached to the back that matched the nightstand off to the side. Dad had actually built a couple of bookshelves for him from plain wood they got at the nearby lumber yard. They were heavily engraved with protection sigils, but you didn't really notice them unless you looked hard.

The room still smelled vaguely of new paint. Dean had wanted him to like it, so Sam was allowed to pick the color and the two brothers had spent a companionable afternoon covering the walls. Luckily Dean could be meticulous about certain things, and it looked pretty good.

This was _home_. A real home. At least for awhile. And that was all he had ever really wanted.


	6. October 2000

Blood.

There was _always_ so much blood.

Clinging to his hands, as he desperately tried to wash it all away, layers of his own skin being sloughed off down the drain from the harsh scraping of nail brushes and steel wool pads. Steady streams of dark pink water swirling in the basin of whatever sink he had access to.

Dark, accusing, copper smelling stains painting every article of clothing he possessed. Never truly coming clean even after soaking and scrubbing, again and again, until the fabric eventually gave out and tore.

Permanently discoloring the threads making up the seams of his boots, his bags, the upholstery in his truck. The cheap motel bedspreads where he would collapse, exhausted and spent, unable to move even an inch further to clean up after a hunt.

On a good day, the blood came from the monster he hunted. Arterial spray from a ghoul's neck after a decapitation. Blowback in his face after shooting a werewolf in the heart with his ever present rounds of silver.

An acceptable day saw the fugly's blood mingled in with John's own. And that was okay, too, because injuries were the price he paid for the job he needed to get done. His scars were a badge of honor as they crisscrossed over his body, making a jagged patchwork quilt of his skin. As long as he managed to put the evil down to the ground and walk away under his own steam, that was all in a good day's work.

The aftermath was harder. Usually involving stitching up his own injuries with nothing but an embroidery needle and some fishing line when his kit was down to the dregs. His head swimming with just enough whiskey to manage the pain and still stem the flow of his life spilling out on an already suspiciously stained carpet.

A bad day meant a hospital, if he hadn't been able to crawl his way to the friendly refuge of another hunter's living space. The antiseptic cleanliness of a place where the lights were too bright, the questions too invasive and unanswerable. The drugs too potent, sapping him of his will and cohesive thought to be on his guard, able to assess the vulnerability of his environment. The risks to his anonymity and freedom too real under the bureaucratic scrutiny of fake insurance cards.

On the worse days, the blood was that of one of his sons.

The first time John had seen one of his kids injured, Dean was ten months old. Sturdy, stubborn and curious, traits that had followed him to manhood, John's firstborn was already up on his feet and tearing up the floor as fast as his wobbling chubby little bow legs could take him. All it took was a split second, a minuscule bump in the area rug and a sharp corner of a coffee table. One minute his boy was zooming across the living room floor, and the next he was crumpled in a heap next to the table, screaming his little lungs out, while a ribbon of blood streamed down his beautiful face.

Head wounds bleed so much more than they should be able to. They can be deceiving and cruel, creating heart stopping lumps in the throats of parents everywhere. John froze, his legs going weak underneath him at the sight of the trail of red streaking down the side of his baby's head. A feeling of helplessness consuming him, immobilizing him in place as still as a statue, even as his child wailed his inarticulate despair in John's direction.

 _Daddy, help me._

 _Daddy, I'm hurt._

 _Comfort me._

 _Fix me._

 _Daddy, I'm scared._

 _Make it stop._

 _Hold me._

 _Love me._

Mary had rushed out from the kitchen, scooping the baby up in her arms and crooning soothing whispers in his ear. It had taken all of five minutes to get Dean cleaned up, bandaged and happy again. Toddling out of the kitchen and clutching a cookie in his tiny hand, previous distress already forgotten. The smallest of Band-Aids covering the nearly invisible pink injury on his hairline even as he flopped down on his diapered butt to play with his firetruck.

John hadn't been able to move an inch the entire time.

Two tours in Vietnam had hardened Corporal Winchester to atrocities that no man should ever experience. There, spilled blood was as commonplace as the sweltering heat and malaria laden mosquito bites. John had spilled plenty himself. Both his and that of his prey, because John was talented, and a sneaky fucker. His movements silent and invisible, his aim straight and true. Hell, he was _the best_. Perched behind the barrel of his weapon, target in his sight, an implacable calm developed out of necessity, the enemy never stood a chance.

He had seen his friends and enemies blown to bits, severed arms and legs as meaty, ragged projectiles flung over the endless expanse of swamp grasses. He had stood rock steady as he triaged explosive chest wounds, his own red drenched hands firmly keeping pressure on ruined guts while waiting for the low thrum of evac choppers, knowing that it was already too late for salvation from the wreckage. Held the cold, clammy, slippery fingers of his blood soaked brothers in arms as they cried heart wrenching pleas for a deliverance that never came.

It had just been much easier to deal with the gross horrors of war in a clinical fashion.

To mentally detach himself from the life force ebbing away in his hands, instead of pondering on the desperate, familiar faces of the young men like himself. Kids whose lives were already over before they had ever really begun. Detachment was the only way to be able to sleep at night under a deceptively calm sky, a world away from everything and everyone he had ever known. Wrapped in khaki, Kevlar and plastic, feet perpetually soaked and half rotting away from fungus, in a wilderness of pain, ears constantly ringing with the echoing shock waves of gunfire and explosions.

It simply hurt too much to allow himself to feel there.

To function, to help those around him in distress, to do his _fucking job_ , he had needed to check his sympathy and compassion at the door. A full scale mental freak out wasn't going to help him be a better solider, a better friend.

Not having your head in the game got you dead quick. Emotional breakdowns got your buddies dead quicker.

He had learned that the hard way during his second month in country. Dizzy with the anxiety that came from being dropped into the meat grinder that was Vietnam, a young kid who thought he knew everything, but actually didn't know jack. John had been a hair's breadth away from becoming a name on a wall before having his ass pulled out of a firefight by a fellow marine on his third tour. Deacon Kaylor had shoved him to the ground and ruthlessly laid down the brutal truth to survival. John owed him his life, and remained in contact with the now prison warden to this day, determined to pay him back.

When he had returned stateside, it had been his beautiful Mary that brought him back from the edge. Reminded him what love and compassion were like. Helped him feel again.

It never got any easier to see one of his own boys hurt or bleeding.

As children, rambunctious and energetic, they had their fair share of minor cuts and scrapes from rough housing and brotherly fistfights. Motherless boys who had to make do with the gruff ministrations of a distracted father's calloused hands, instead of the warm softness of Mary's gentle touch. John would patch them up, hug them or punish them, or both, whichever the situation called for, and then send them off on their way again, but keeping a closer eye afterwards.

The first time Dean got hurt on a hunt, he was thirteen years old. Capable with firearms, he was standing guard while John dug up the floorboards of a house to find the remains of a murdered child who had been killing the mothers of the new families moving in. Caught off guard, the spirit had launched Dean into a set of French doors, the broken shards of glass slicing open a long line in his right arm.

Dean never even flinched. Already a true soldier, he got back on his feet, held his position and kept watch, even as his tattered shirt sleeve blossomed crimson, while his father finished the job. John had warily appraised him through the rear view mirror as they sped back to the motel. Dean quiet, using his good arm to comfort Sammy as his little brother cried bitter tears over the blood soaking the Impala's back seat. Dean didn't utter a sound as he held his father's gaze in the mirror, his expressive green eyes giving away his own young terror.

 _Daddy, help me._

 _Daddy, I'm hurt._

 _Comfort me._

 _Fix me._

 _Daddy, I'm scared._

 _Make it stop._

 _Hold me._

 _Love me._

This time John didn't freeze. This time his mind returned to a place when he had checked his emotions for the good of his fellow soldiers. He couldn't afford to think of the boys as his babies on the hunt, for the simple reason that _he_ had already forced them to become soldiers.

Because not having your head in the game got you dead quick, and emotional breakdowns got your _family_ dead quicker.

So that is how he managed to sew up his son's shredded arm that night without his legs collapsing underneath him. How he managed to triage them and tend to them through every injury the hunts gave them. With the dispassionate and clinical care of a fellow soldier, and not the overwhelming fear and anxiety of a scared shitless father. His boys were made tough. Were told to _suck it up_ , and _take it like a man_ , because that was how he would keep them alive in a world where they needed to grow up too fast and face nightmares too grotesque to comprehend.

Later, when the crisis had passed, he could fret over them, and comfort them and, sometimes, in the dark of night, cry over them while they slept, banged up and bruised from the war he had dragged them into. And as the years dragged on, his mind began to process new glimpses in their kaleidoscope of greens and hazel eyes as their never ending campaign dragged on.

 _Daddy, help us._

 _Daddy, we're hurt._

 _Comfort us._

Finish _this._

 _Daddy, we're scared._

 _Make it stop._

 _Hold us._

Love us _._

 _Protect us._

Blood.

There was _always_ so much blood.

Clinging to his hands, as he desperately tried to wash it all away, layers of his own skin being sloughed off down the drain from the harsh scraping of nail brushes and steel wool pads. Steady streams of dark pink water swirling in the basin of whatever sink he had access to.

Dripping from the deep gashes his holy water drenched knife cut into the face of the dead meat suit the demon was riding. Staining the cement floor of Caleb's basement, turned into a room of torture to extract the information John needed to keep his children safe.

Spiderwebbing the whites of his eyes as he glared hatefully at himself in the mirror, afraid of just how far he was willing to go to protect them.

/

It was a beautiful autumn day in South Dakota.

The melodic strains of _Turn The Page_ eminated from the Impala's tape deck and floated in the air around the salvage yard as Dean lay prone on Bobby's old wooden creeper seat under the Camaro. A small pile of phone handsets lay nearby, the worn peeling tape identifying each fake agency that Dean would have to plausibly represent in case of a hunter's emergency. Bobby was away for a few hours, meeting up with a buyer for a talisman that he had come across in his travels.

Dean had always known that Bobby's small but lucrative side business of dealing in occult objects made up for the financial shortfalls of the salvage yard. Sometimes he idly wondered exactly how much the amulet he himself wore would bring from the right buyer.

Not that it really mattered. He'd kill any bastard that tried to take it from him first.

The day his little brother gave it to him, Dean had felt the extra weight it brought to his chest. Not just from the heavy chunk of metal itself, which thumped hard as he moved and occasionally caught him in the teeth with a painful whack. But from the knowledge that, with the gift, came Sam's faith in trusting in Dean over their father. A bond of brotherhood so strong that Dean felt it as much a part of him as his own DNA. Not that he actively encouraged or desired to come first in his brother's life over John, but the responsibility still found itself laying heavily around his own neck just the same.

Working with now practiced moves, he steadfastly pounded out the mangled sections of the undercarriage, dislodging the various small pieces that were crushed beyond help in the crash that had defined the car as totaled.

He loved the work he was doing at the salvage yard. A peace had settled over him for the first time in his young life as he took these twisted and broken machines and finessed and crafted them back into something beautiful, gleaming with sleek lines and polished chrome in the sunlight. Something to be appreciated and loved, in a world where there never seemed to be enough of either sentiment.

Against Dean's initial hesitation, Bobby's faith in his skill had paid off. He had already done enough profitable work in the past month and a half to more than earn his salary. With word getting around that Singer Salvage had a talented young mechanic working full time, Bobby's place was seeing a steady stream of new customers. From the men who grudgingly appreciated the quality his craftsmanship, to the ladies that welcomed the opportunity to ogle at the gorgeous young man working under their hoods. His rakish smile and flirtatious manner bringing a little extra bounce in their steps as they went about their day.

Working on the cars gave him a passably similar feeling of satisfaction to hunting. Not that he was deluded into thinking that they could possibly compare on the scale of importance. He knew better than that. Sure, someone's life might be saved because Dean had done a good job on installing new brakes, but there were a million mechanics in the world.

Under a rack, Dean wasn't any more important or vital than any of the others. Hunters, however, were few and far between, and they tended to have an exceptionally short life expectancy, which made them even more rare. It was in that world that his polished skills were far more important to the greater good.

It didn't mean that he couldn't feel a sense of pride and accomplishment watching his handiwork roll out of the yard, knowing that he had made someone's life a little easier, a little prettier, a little more safe.

A million times over the years his thoughts had drifted back to the conversation he had with Robin on Sonny's couch in Hurleyville, when she had asked him what he wanted to do with his life. His words to her about cars still haunted him, even as they still rang with a semblance of truth.

 _Fixing them is like a puzzle, and the best part is when you're done, they leave, and you're not responsible for them anymore_

It didn't take a Freudian genius to know that he had been partially alluding to his little brother. A subconscious slip of the tongue by a scared kid who had carried the burden of half raising a younger sibling under strenuous circumstances, while keeping their emotional train wreck of a father on the rails at the same time. It had been a gargantuan weight on the shoulders of a boy who had so little faith in his own self worth he often felt himself drowning with panic that he would just screw everything up.

Now that he had felt the real icy tendrils of fear that his brother's absence would bring, he regretted ever saying those words in the first place. Back then it hadn't even occurred to him that Sam would even consider walking away from their family. It was laughable, a concept so abstract that it didn't compute at all.

They were Winchesters. They were family. Their family hunted. End of.

Dean no longer had any illusions that his little brother would have bolted if not given the chance to spend this time in the _normal_ world. Sometimes, in the dark shadows of the night, his head swirling with booze and feeling melancholy, he wondered if his father and brother even found it even remotely amusing that Dad had been born in a town actually called _Normal_. Talk about irony, considering the current trajectory of their fucked up little family.

The experiment was working.

The radical shift in attitude between his father and brother more than welcome to both Dean and their father, and maybe Sam too. At least, Dean hoped so.

Now that Sammy was getting in some _normal_ time in his life, he didn't seem to glaringly resent the time spent with their father hunting on the weekends they met up. He still wasn't happy about it, but at least he was keeping his usual stream of pissy comments to himself. Between the hours spent in research and the actual time on the hunt, Dad and Sam had actually _talked_ for a change instead of just Dad barking orders and Sammy giving him lip.

It was a fragile truce, to be sure, but Dean was taking the win.

When he was feeling a bit more charitable about his brother's feelings for their dad, Dean recognized that it couldn't have always been easy for the kid. Sammy might bitch and posture over every little crack in Dad's fault line of parenting failures, but Dean knew the kid better than to not know that, underneath the sulky exterior, Sam often felt cast aside.

Dean felt bad about that, but he sure as hell wasn't going to apologize for it.

Well, most of it, anyway.

The biggest thing Dean and Dad had in common was their unwavering desire to keep their youngest safe. It was _stone number one_ in the Winchester family. Sometimes that meant hovering over Sam or leaving him behind, and it was just too damn bad if that hurt his precious feelings, because he was still just a snot nosed kid that needed to be kept on the straight and narrow, and he didn't get a say in the matter.

But that didn't mean that Dean was blind to the damage that might have been the result of years of their actions. For one, Dean was older, and had been John's son longer and also under different circumstances for a while as well. Because they spent so much time together without Sam, _of course_ Dean and Dad were going to have an easier time communicating.

He knew that sometimes the kid felt left out, could see it in the hurt expression on his little brother's face when his father and big brother shared thoughts and memories of things that hadn't included him. Sam tried to hide it, truly he did, and that tore at Dean a little because he couldn't change that.

So Sam would lash out, anger being easier to express than the pain of admitting that he was jealous. Sam had so much anger in him, all the time, burning in his belly like a lava pool, building up to frequent eruptions that laid waste to his other family members at times.

On one level, Dean suspected that a lot of Sam's rebellion to the hunting life was fueled by what he might have perceived to be a rejection by their father, or John's preference for spending time with Dean over time with Sam.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

While Dean knew that their father loved them both, John had always placed Sammy's safety over Dean's, and that was fine with the older brother, because he wanted that too. It didn't mean that once in a while Dean didn't feel some jealousy of his own. Where Dad would give orders, and sharp, firm looks demanding obedience, and ego crushing reprimands to Dean, Sam would get the softer smiles and more patient indulgence that he disregarded, too mired in his own petulance to see them for the gifts that they were.

A short time after he had been collected from Sonny's, Dad had given Dean his beloved leather jacket. Well worn and familiar from the earliest days of their childhood, the boys had often found themselves sleeping in the Impala's backseat during long night drives, with the jacket thrown over them to keep them warm. It was soft and cozy, infused with the comforting familiar scents of their Dad that, even while they slumbered, evoked a calming sense of safety. Like a protective shield that wouldn't let anything past its heavy exterior to hurt them.

Dean suspected that it was a peace offering. A way for his father, without words, to acknowledge that Dean was growing up. Had made a catastrophic mistake and took his licks, and was ready to rejoin the fold. A symbolic gesture that told Dean that he was becoming old enough to walk in John's shoes, but would always remain under the blanket of his dad's protection.

At twelve, Sammy had still enjoyed the security of riding in the car under his father's coat, and there was a painful sadness in his hazel eyes when it was passed on to his brother.

On several occasions after that, Dean had been more than happy to drape it over his little brother while they were on the road, but Sam just stubbornly pushed it aside, unconvincingly claiming to not need it. After a while, Dean had stopped trying, knowing that whatever small comfort it had always brought his little brother had been ruined by the transfer of ownership.

It had been hard to not take that one personally.

Then, on Dean's last birthday, John had pressed the main keys to the Impala into his firstborn's hand, and the hurt had pinched Sam's eyes again, even as he struggled to muster up a half smile over his brother's enthusiasm. Another symbolic passing of the torch, of one of their family's few main possessions, once again going to Dean without a thought of how Sam might feel about the car that had also more or less been his most stable home throughout childhood going to his brother.

Dean was trying. Really he was, because his brother's happiness mattered to him, usually more than his own did. The simple truth was that Dean was, in fact, the first son, and with that title he took on all of the responsibilities and burdens that came with it. He took it all on stoically, as his most important job, and he was sorry. Damn it, he _was_ _,_ that there weren't more family heirlooms to pass on to his little brother, but a fire that had taken their mother had taken most of them too.

That's why, when Dad had sat with him on Bobby's porch that fateful August morning and pointed out the damaged Camaro, startling him with the story of how it was the right year and model of one that their mother had once cherished, Dean knew that he actually could do this one thing for Sam.

Bobby had wanted to just give him the wreck outright, but Dean was his father's son, and he didn't need charity. They came to a reasonable financial agreement for the body and replacement parts, and Dean was using free time to slowly rebuild the car that he was planning on gifting to his little brother just as soon as he could.

Having learned his lesson from the last time he had a big idea, Dean had consulted his father while they worked side by side to carve the sigils in the kitchen of the little house a couple of days after they rented it. Once again, Dad had surprised him with his agreement, and Dean knew in that moment that John also understood how important it was to give Sam additional tethers to their family. John had quietly offered to add his hands and skills to bringing the car back to life and giving it to Sam from the both of them.

The wrecked car in Bobby's yard had never belonged to Mary Winchester, it was true, but she had loved it's twin, and John and Dean would pour their love for their youngest into the restoration of it, so that he too could own a piece of the family history that wasn't covered in ash, sulfur and blood.

/

Sam knew the minute he woke up that morning that he was getting sick.

His entire body hurt. The kind of achy, weakened muscles and generally crappy kind of hurt. He also knew it wasn't all because of the soccer game he had played in the night before. Pitted against Holy Rosary's main rivals, with the opposing team having the home advantage, Sam and his teammates had run flat out up and down the field with their fierce competitiveness on overdrive the entire time.

Rewarded with a win of only one more goal on their side of the scoreboard, they hadn't even minded spending the better part of the game soaked to the skin from the cold, steady autumn drizzle. Mid October in South Dakota was a fickle mistress, fluctuating between Indian summer days and the early heralding of approaching winter.

By the time Dean got him home, Sam was still damp and covered in mud and starting to sneeze. Suddenly, it seemed that having half of the team already battling the flu before the game, actually _was_ a big deal after all. That his brother had been able to take him directly home instead of Sam having to ride the team bus back to school lessened the low grade resentment he harbored over _House_ _Rules_ _#18_ requiring his brother to attend any activity that was held away from Holy Rosary itself.

Not that Sam wouldn't have been pleased to have his big brother cheering him on in the first place, but he would have preferred that it be Dean's decision and not an order from their father. Dean at least seemed genuinely enthusiastic as he rooted from the stands with the other students and family members. He would sit, yelling and screaming encouragements from the sidelines, catching popcorn in his mouth, chatting with the parents of Sam's teammates, and clapping wildly when Sam made a goal.

Sam was also fairly sure that some of the girls came to the games just to stare lustfully at his pretty faced, bad boy brother, and not out of a passion for the sport.

He would have been embarrassed by the overt attention from an older sibling in front of his friends, if only he wasn't secretly so pleased by it. Especially since Dean attended the home games too, and that hadn't been a requirement of Dad's mandates.

Unfortunately, Dean could read him like a well loved and dog eared book. So when Sam barely made it through their morning run, when his longer legs and soccer drill toned muscles usually had him edging out Dean's strides, Dean had been frowning with concern.

When Sam took an extra fifteen minutes in the shower, standing listlessly under the hot pounding water, praying for a miraculous healing of the general overall weariness he was feeling, Dean went from sitting cross armed in the kitchen to pacing the upstairs hallway until the shower was turned off.

Sam had pushed past his big brother, stumbled into his room and slammed the door shut. Completely ignoring the concerned and searching glares that his brother had leveled at him with the laser intensity of a thousand suns. He barely summoned the energy to drag on his uniform, pulled the seemingly lead weight of backpack with one limp noodled arm, and practically fell out of his bedroom door.

Face flushed and aware of the crackling noise building up in his lungs, he was shocked to find the hallway empty, knowing better than to think his pitbull sibling was backing off. Not surprisingly, Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, menacingly holding a thermometer in his hand and daring Sam to protest.

"You look like shit, Dude."

Sam had slumped into his chair, already feeling a wave of dizziness pass over him.

"Bite me."

Dean had shook his head disbelievingly, crossing over to the table and holding the thermometer threateningly near Sam's mouth.

"Forget it. The way you look? I'd get rabies if I bit you right now. _Open_."

Sam was feeling too shitty to deal with his brother's oppressive mother henning. He turned his head away, ignoring the little digital stick, causing Dean to growl and reach out a hand to feel Sam's forehead. Sam had thrown up his own hand to block the gesture, ducking away and getting back to his feet.

"Get off me, man. I'm fine. And I'm going to be late."

Dean had thrown the thermometer onto the counter with an agitated flick of his wrist, followed by the Impala's keys, clearly signaling that they were not going anywhere at the moment.

"You won't be late, because you're not going. Get back into bed. I'll call the school."

Sam didn't like being bossed around at the best of times, and he really didn't like it when it was taking every ounce of strength he had in him to stand at the moment.

" _Yes_ , I am. Stop being such a jerk. We have to go or I'll get in trouble."

Dean just sat down at the table and resolutely scowled at him with the same kind of unflappable commitment that Dad had when he was proving who was boss. Normally, it would bring out the inner asshole in Sam's demeanor, but he simply didn't have the will for a heated knock down dragged out brawl.

Besides, a sad puppy face worked so much better on his brother.

"Dean, _please_. I have to go to class or I'll miss Quiz Bowl practice after school, and then I can't compete next week."

Sam had put just the right amount of hopeful, soulful whine in his voice, knowing that Dean had never been able to refuse that particular tone. He even had the stamina to pull off the coup de grace.

"Just... _please_?"

And just like Sam knew he would, Dean had shaken his head in reluctant agreement, rolled his eyes and driven him to school under protest, eliciting a promise from little brother that he would call for a ride home if it got too bad.

Now that Sam actually was in school, however, he was regretting his decision to make himself attend. He spent the first three periods slogging through the hall, feeling like he was underwater with a baby elephant taking up residence on his chest. The lectures he usually enjoyed so much unable to penetrate the balls of cotton that seemed to be clogging his ears. The buzzing of words making his head spin as he tried to keep up.

He was leaning against his open locker door, listlessly sorting through his books to collect the ones for his next class and wondering if he would be able to walk the fifty feet to the classroom door without passing out. In the distance, he saw the blonde wavy hair of Kristin Sullivan sashaying down the hall with some of the other cheerleaders, the short pleated skirts of their cheer uniforms giving tantalizing views of their shapely toned legs.

God he _loved_ Fridays.

Fridays were Spirit days at school during football season, and the cheerleaders were allowed to ditch the already short school uniforms for the even shorter cheer skirts. For some inexplicable reason, the beautiful Kristin had been shamelessly flirting with Sam for the past few weeks, and was more than hinting for an invitation to be Sam's date for the Homecoming Dance next weekend.

Sam knew there were plenty of guys who would happily kill each other for the chance to take Kristin to the dance, so he wasn't quite sure why she was pressing him so hard. He also knew that she was _very_ recently broken up from her long term boyfriend, Trenton, one of Holy Rosary's linebackers and an absolute monster of a guy in size and temperament. Sam wasn't scared of Trenton, knowing perfectly well that he could take the bully if the situation required it. It was all the overblown drama surrounding the high school politics of relationships, dating rules and bro codes that Sam didn't want to mess with.

Still, she was hot. _Blindingly hot_ , and he _was_ a guy, so...

But Dad's commandments were clear, and it was unlikely that Sam would even be allowed to go to the dance in the first place. Since their move to Sioux Falls, there had only been two weekends that his father hadn't required them to meet up with him, and Sam didn't want to ask a girl out, only to have to disappoint her when Dad said no, as he probably would. Especially for something as big as Homecoming, where everyone, including the guys seemed to be overly enthused for the weekend festivities.

Sam had never been to a homecoming dance at any of his schools, and he wasn't terribly social either, but he _was_ damn curious now that he had a chance to fit in.

Through meet ups at the lockers, or a quick _closerthanthis_ sit down in the lunch room, Kristin had assured him on more than one occasion that she had her dress and was ready to go. If only there was someone to escort her, she pouted prettily, running a well manicured hand down the length of Sam's polo covered bicep.

He and Dean were supposed to be meeting Dad in Lincoln tonight at Caleb's place, and Sam was determined to be very polite and very respectful and, yes, _plead_ , for his father to give him next weekend off from hunting so he could go out with a gorgeous girl on his arm. Because Sam was not above begging for the chance to be something other than the school freak for once. He wanted to be _that guy_ that got to take the hot cheerleader to a school dance.

Dean had taken one look at Kristin at the last soccer game and was impressed enough to jump on board, so at least Sam knew he would have his brother in his corner when the showdown happened.

Kristin caught his eye and waved to him as she headed to class, and Sam felt a wave of his own, one of dizziness, pass over him that wasn't entirely related to the obvious flu bug he was incubating. He wasn't a freak at Holy Rosary. Not this time. With his taller, more muscular physique and his shortened, but still adorably messy brown curls and shy smiles. Sam Winchester was a riddle, wrapped inside an enigma, wrapped inside a taco, and if he was honest with himself, he liked being a bit of a mystery.

He was also currently walking a fine line between the worlds of athlete popularity and nerdy brainiacs.

He played soccer, not football, which kept him just outside the full circle of the jock and cheerleader clique. Although his schoolmates saw enough of his talents and physical superiority in Phys. Ed. to be impressed just the same. He strolled the halls laden like a pack mule under the bulk of AP textbooks, rising to the top of the class rankings and earning the grudging admiration of the smart kids clique who saw their own standings endangered. He lived with a male model looking older brother who drove him to and from school every day in a bad ass black car, only adding to his aura of undiscovered charm.

Sam was quiet and shy, but always had a smile or helping hand for everyone. People liked him, for as little as they had gotten to know him. He had made a few friendly acquaintances, but no really close friends just yet. His personal schedule didn't allow him much time for social activities because he worked hard and was demanding of himself in all things.

In his fervent desire to pad his applications, he had filled each extracurricular period after school with a variety of clubs, throwing his enthusiasm completely at every one in their turn. Home at five every day, he only had five hours each evening to do the mandatory training Dad demanded, eat whatever crazy concoction his brother put on the table, and get his studies done before lights out. Gone on the weekends to parts unknown, it didn't leave a lot of opportunity for hanging out.

Sam's entire being felt sluggish as he swayed precariously on his feet at his locker. Rubbing his glazed eyes with one hand, he could feel the unnatural warmth of his face and knew that he should have just stayed home. He did want to go to Quiz Bowl practice though. Team rules mandated that a missed practice made you ineligible for the next match, which happened to be scheduled for Tuesday next week. Sam had worked hard to prepare, and he wanted to compete. Another asset to his name for a scholarship.

Knowing that a trip to the school nurse would result in an undesirable phone call to his brother or, _worse_ , his father, he hefted his books in his arms and stumbled to the boy's restroom a few doors down the hall. Dumping his books on the wall length sink counter, he fumbled for a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, running them under cold water and pressing them against his face to soothe the sweaty heat of his skin.

Leaning his hips into the counter for balance, he kept the cold water faucet running steadily, swallowing the two ibuprofen tablets he stuffed into the front pocket of his khakis before he left the house this morning and washing them down with a handful of the stale tap water. The trickle of liquid agitated his slightly swollen throat, and he found himself suddenly gagging and coughing up a small blob of mucus.

In the mirror he caught a reflection of his bedraggled and flushed face, his eyes glassy and unfocused, and he humorlessly admitted that he really did look like something you could catch a nasty disease from. No wonder his brother had been so grumpy about driving him in this morning. Reaching out to the faucet, he cupped his hands and splashed his face with a few scoops of the blissfully cold water. The relief dissipated as quickly as it had found him, leaving him breathless, heaving and blisteringly warm.

He could get through this. He was a Winchester, goddamn it. He'd sat through his father putting twelve stitches into his leg once after being clawed by a black shuck. Hunting far out of its normal grounds, the nasty beast had surprised their family before John put it down. With nothing to dull the pain except a few swallows of his father's whiskey, Sam had held still and managed not to scream, encircled by his brother's strong arms and soothing whispers, while Dad cleansed the wound with holy water, bubbling painfully in the torn folds of Sam's skin, as he sewed.

Gritting his teeth in determination, Sam forced himself upright, ignoring the muffled, distorted sounds in his ears as he got his bearings. Too late realizing that the sudden absence of the usual cacophony of hallway noises meant that he had missed the bell for the start of his next period.

 _Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit_

Two now equally unattractive options lay before him.

Behind door number one, he could go to the nurse who would almost assuredly summon his brother to drag Sam's fevered ass home. Sam would miss his practice and the meet, because sickness didn't change the team's rules, and he would spend the rest of the evening under a barrage of his big brother's continuous rounds of _I told you so'_ s, while Dean repeatedly shoved liquids and thermometers in his mouth.

Behind door number two was the pompous, unforgiving face of his asshole of a Latin teacher, Mr. Northam. A spindly, prematurely gray and bitter man who harbored a resentment against the new kid who had the audacity to point out a mistake in a verb conjugation at the beginning of the semester. He often went out of his way to try and trip Sam up in front of the class, not knowing that this particular student had an unusually firm grasp of the ancient language.

Either way, Sam was now out of class without a hall pass. A big no-no in the very orderly, manicured world of Holy Rosary Academy, regardless of which direction he took.

Determined to deal with the inevitable consequences, Sam racked his shoulders back and headed towards his Latin classroom. Either choice was going to suck, but at least this one left his eligibility for Quiz Bowl intact. Class had already begun, the steady, dull repetitions faintly echoing behind the closed door, as his classmates droned on and on with today's conjugations. He huffed, ran a hand through his sweaty hair, and pushed forward. His arrival bringing the lesson to an immediate halt, a late attendance pretty rare in a school where tardiness was frowned upon, even by fellow students.

"Mr. Winchester. _Thank you_ for joining us."

Northam's voice was laced with impatient hostility, clearly broadcasting the sentiment that the interruption was as unwelcome as it was unacceptable. He stood implacable, a sanctimonious sneer wrinkling his face as he peered over the rim of his glasses.

"Do you have a pass?"

Sam pursed his lips, refusing to either beg sympathy for his illness, or be baited into a less than respectful response that would dig the hole he was in even deeper. It was a lot like dealing with Dad, he noted wearily, and just as frustrating.

"No, sir. I'm sorry, Mr. Northam."

The way the surly teacher's little pig eyes lit up, you would have thought that Christmas had come early. Holy Rosary was full of wonderful teachers, all friendly, helpful and bursting with concern for the advancement of their students. Sam had carefully cultivated a great relationship with all of them, and looked forward to his schedule every day. Unfortunately, every place had its bad apples, and Northam was at the bottom of that very rotten barrel.

"Journal please, Mr. Winchester."

Northam held out a thin, pasty white hand, a predatory smile sneaking around his lips. Sam sighed, but he pulled a spiral bound book from the pile he held in his arms and passed it over. With far too much enthusiasm, the journal was snatched from his hand and almost triumphantly slapped onto the ornately carved teacher desk.

This was a show now.

A moment of triumph for a sad little man whose ego had been bruised and had been biding his time to get his payback. Making a big production out of something so trivial, Northam pulled an embossed silver stamp from the center drawer, cracked open Sam's journal to the appropriate page and slammed the stamp against the pristine white paper with a flourish. A bloody red circular mark now marred the page, and Northam grinned wickedly as he passed the book back.

"We've lost enough time today, Mr. Winchester. Take your seat."

If it had been Dean standing there, nothing would have kept his big brother from making some spectacularly smart assed remark that would leave the jackass educator fuming and humiliated for the rest of the semester. Dean wouldn't have cared that it would have gotten him thrown out of class and possibly the school itself. Northam was the kind of guy that had most likely been bullied as a child, and now found himself in a position where he could wield intimidation of his own with lead pipe cruelty, and Dean would have relished in the idea of taking the guy down a couple of pegs.

But Sam was not his brother. Not willing to risk all he had worked for so far, and hoped to accomplish with the unexpected gift of this school year, on getting the upper hand with someone so clearly unhappy with his own life that he lashed out at innocent kids. Instead he ducked his head in submission, wanting the whole incident to just end, while he semi-stumbled to his seat, the pounding noise in his ears and throbbing headache sapping the last of his strength.

His journal stared at him accusingly as the class resumed.

The pale blue covered book sported the school crest and Sam's personal ID number embossed on the front. Every student had one, and they were carried throughout the day without exception. They served a variety of purposes for the teachers and students of the academy. Each page of the first section was a daily calendar, with the space to make notes of assignment due dates and testing schedules.

There was a section dedicated to teachers' notes, where instructions and permissions like hall passes could be written. To be produced upon request by any faculty member to ensure that students were always where they were assigned to be. Holy Rosary had exceptionally high standards, was a thoroughly organized institution and, to be honest, Sam enjoyed the stability that the order brought. Too many times over the years, his schools had been places of unmanageable chaos that weren't conducive to productivity or learning.

The last section contained a three page document outlining Holy Rosary's Student Code of Conduct. The Code, and the fairly unwavering adherence to it, was what made the school as high ranked as it was. The school frowned on poor behavior in general, whether it was a lack of dedication to assignments, disrespect to faculty members or other students, littering, loitering, fighting or overall poor sportsmanship. Not to mention tardiness.

The Code was provided at a student's initial interview with the principal and their parents, and the contents were gone over in excruciating detail so that there were no misunderstandings if Little Johnny decided that he was being treated unfairly. Parents and students had to agree to each condition before admittance was given, and during Sam's interview, the document had required a signature from him as the incoming student, and from Dad _and_ Dean as his guardians.

Sam pressed the heel of his right hand to his burning eyes and forced himself to concentrate, even as his mind drifted in a feverish haze. Twice since he took his seat, Northam had tried to embarrass him again, calling on him to answer questions that were too hard for the particular lesson they were having. His overt attention just made Sam more tired, because he wasn't going to be caught on the spot. He prepared well for his classes, and already knew Latin close to fluency. If it wasn't for Dad's insistence that he keep in practice, he wouldn't have bothered to take the class at all when he could be spending the time learning something new. After the second correct answer, he was hoping just to be left alone to suffer in silence.

His student interview had been the first time that Sam really thought about the implications of the guardianship documents. As he watched Dean pour over the Code of Conduct, with a v of concentration indented in his brow line, Sam had mused over the concept that _technically_ his brother now had as much legal claim to Sam as their father did. The fact that John Winchester wasn't the kind of guy to give up even a fraction of an inch of control over anything, _especially_ when it involved one of his kids, was the thing that troubled Sam the most.

Maybe because it was Dean, and not anybody else, that had Dad relaxing his usual guard, Sam didn't know. What he did know was that their father had been subtly changed by that one hunt, and where he had been mysterious and non-informative over just about everything during Sam's entire childhood, he was slipping into previously unseen levels of secrecy now.

He could tell that Dean was just as troubled, although his big brother would never admit doubting their father over anything. Dean also didn't make a big deal of the guardianship when Sam brought it up, casually discarding it as a topic of conversation when Sam had wanted to talk about it and see if they couldn't put their heads together and come up with some plausible and rational explanation for Dad's actions.

In true form, his big brother had dismissed the documents entirely, considering them just another one of Dad's orders, nothing more, and reminding Sam that a piece of paper did not change anything between them. Dean's matter-of-fact attitude towards the whole thing had made Sam smile, because it had never taken a legal mandate to prompt his brother's concern and care for him.

As he sat listless and bone weary in his seat, his too warm fingers restlessly rubbed against the outside seam of his student journal. Holy Rosary's Code of Conduct was enforced by the distribution of conduct marks. Penalties given to students breaking any section of the code, assigned by any faculty member at their discretion. Each teacher had their own specialized red ink stamp that could mark a student's journal for disciplinary action, and because the academy was a modernized and well funded institution, each faculty member also had individual access to the school's computer system.

By next period, Sam's conduct mark would be entered into the system under his personal ID number, generating an automatic assignment of punishment and a corresponding letter home outlining the infraction and the measures taken in response. Sam knew the Code, knew that his first mark would earn him a lunchtime detention in the Resource Room on Monday. He also knew that he was required to bring his journal home and have either Dean or Dad sign the stamp beforehand, because the Code stipulated that no action be taken without parental consent.

He could easily forge both his father's and brother's signatures. Just like they could both forge his and each other's. That kind of thing was sort of a requirement in their unusual little family for one reason or another. Although Dad tended to get volatile if something that could get them noticed by CPS was forged without him being informed first.

Dad was funny like that.

Sam wasn't even going to bother this time. With the letter automatically being sent home, one or both of them would find out eventually, and the fallout of hiding it from them wasn't worth the hassle. Neither one of them would even care that he had been a few minutes late to class, especially once they found out that he had been sick in the bathroom beforehand.

The downside to the whole thing was the fact that the Code had been integrated in the _House Rules_ as well. Apparently because Sam's father had suddenly taken a new and unusual interest in his youngest son's schooling, and felt the need to exert his Alpha Male dominance over everything school related during Sam's interview.

Students accumulated conduct marks in sets of three. If the third one wasn't earned during the current semester, the first two were erased. Only a third one would be entered as a behavioral problem on the student's permanent record, and it was this particular threat that had Sam determined to never earn three. Teachers couldn't give him a clean letter of recommendation if he had a behavioral mark on file. The first mark imposed a lunchtime detention. The second mark, two days of after school detention, and because Holy Rosary was a strict and traditional Catholic school, the third mark bought you a ticket to the principal's office and a date with his paddle.

Not that the last was a new development in the Winchester's world. It was still legal in half the states in the country to paddle students, and given how many schools the boys had attended over the years, it was simple math that occasionally they would be enrolled in one where it was in use. Sam had so far been spared because he barely opened his mouth in school, let alone got into enough of a scrape to actually cause trouble.

Dean had managed to get his butt busted twice, because, well, Dean was just that kind of kid.

Sitting in the principal's office with Father Williams, Dad had turned in his chair and pointedly reminded his youngest that earning a paddling at school automatically bought him a whipping at home, and Sam had blushed nine shades of crimson. Not because that little pronouncement was breaking news to him, because it had always been the policy in their family, long before the implementation of the _House Rules_. Sam's ass was in a state of perpetual peril with his father anyway, especially if it was something that could get him noticed by the authorities.

But having his dad come out and say it in front of a stranger? Absolutely _mortifying._

Unfortunately that meeting must have given Dad some divine inspiration, because as soon as they got home he added repercussions for all conduct marks to the _House Rules_ , and Sam knew his first mark just earned him a corresponding extra session of PT tonight, like he knew a second mark would get him grounded for a week. He didn't have much of a social life in the first place, so a theoretical grounding in the future wasn't a big deal to a kid that never went out anyway.

The extra PT? Was just going to _suck_ in his current condition.

That unpleasant fact caused him to groan as another wave of dizziness passed over him. As if he wasn't feeling crappy enough. His body pains had body pains, for crying out loud. Already he was formulating a plea to be excused from their regular workout without admitting that his brother had been right to worry this morning. Dean would fuss and hover over him, worse than any helicopter parent, because he took his responsibility for Sam's overall well being _very_ seriously.

Sam was pretty sure that his big brother was already fretting over which permissive action on his part was directly responsible for whatever had been ailing the younger Winchester this morning. That also was just who Dean was. Running hot and cold. One minute ready to kick Sam's ass, and then the next stressing himself into a frenzy over Sam's tiniest little sniffle. On the flip side, Dean could also be the typical big brother, happily teasing and tormenting Sam, up to and including putting Nair in his shampoo bottle, leaving Sam in tears and looking like a miniature Uncle Fester until his hair grew back.

Dad had been so _pissed_ over that one.

Dean would get the letter from school, and he would sign the stamp, maybe even without gloating too much over his little brother's first foray as a school miscreant, although probably not. He would probably be bursting with pride in some off balanced, perverted sense of amusement kind of way.

Sam loved his brother, but sometimes he was just a great big bag of dicks.

If Sam was convincing enough or, worse case scenario, pathetic enough, Dean would probably let him push back the PT to another day, or maybe even cancel it out altogether. His brother could be sympathetic like that too. But that was dependent on how well Sam could keep his shit together and not let on just exactly how truly awful he felt.

Which was growing more and more doubtful by the second.

Telling Dean just how bad it was would propel his brother into canceling their planned meet up with Dad, because it was just a research weekend a few hours away at Caleb's place, and that was something that his big brother would turn down in favor of Sam's health and wellbeing.

Sam simply didn't want him to.

Dean rarely got any time for himself or, even worse, time to actually have fun without having to drag Sam with. Dean and Caleb were closer in age than Dad and Caleb were, and the young arms dealer, like the brothers, had been raised in The Life. He and Dean had a lot in common, and on the rare occasion, were able to get together and cut loose, away from Dad's heavy handed observation and Sam's overall neediness. Sam knew how much Dean had been looking forward to this weekend, and he wasn't willing to spoil one of his big brother's few, all too infrequent chances, to have a good time.

That's why, when Dean picked Sam up out in front of the school at five, and Sam had miraculously made it through the rest of the day without face planting on the waxed and buffed floors of the hallowed halls, Sam had stubbornly dug in and rebelled against Dean's worried insistence that they head straight to Urgent Care. All Sam had to do was put on his most pathetic face, not too hard under the circumstances, and say the words he knew his brother wouldn't ignore.

"I miss Dad."

/

Caleb had inherited his house in Lincoln from his grandparents. A simple Cape style wooden structure. Weather beaten and nondescript, with three small bedrooms and a fold out couch. It was a refuge for the hurt and the bleeding of the hunting community when they needed a place to rest when everything went absolutely pear shaped. It also had a uniquely designed basement, for when the hunt needed just a little something extra in gathering intel.

The last in a long line of hunters, Caleb also inherited his father's gun dealership. With a storefront that sold legitimately registered pieces to the regular public, and a significantly larger underground vault that catered strictly to trusted hunters. John owed the majority of the current Winchester arsenal to Caleb and his family.

The young man was also a talented hunter in his own right. John had made sure of that himself after Caleb's father was brutally killed by a family of rugarus. John had known Caleb's father well, and had been the one with the undesirable task of telling the boy what exactly the filthy creatures had done to his dad. Only six years older than his Dean, John had taken an immediately liking to the boy during his time frequenting Harvelle's Roadhouse, and had eventually taken him under his wing, like Bobby and Daniel Elkins had once done for John.

Hunters have their own special skill sets, and there just weren't enough of them around to shirk the responsibility of passing the knowledge down to the next generation. Caleb had been energetic and quick thinking, a passion for hunting that mirrored John's own. Like most other hunters, he stayed in The Life, first out of revenge, and then out of a sense of responsibility, to spare others the pain and suffering he had experienced himself. He and John had taken their first joint hunt when they took down the rugaru family that destroyed Caleb's life, and the older man knew in that instant that Caleb was in it for good.

Payback was a necessity, but it didn't take away the pain, or the drive to keep others from feeling it.

Caleb was friendly and easy going. A wicked sense of humor that could even get John laughing on occasion. The boys loved him, Dean especially, and it didn't escape John's notice that his firstborn often looked up to Caleb like an older brother. Dean was _such_ a good big brother, in every way that John could have ever hoped him to be for Sammy. It was only right that his oldest get a chance to enjoy even the tiniest bit of the comfort and guidance of a big brother himself.

Because John trusted Caleb.

Trusted him with his secrets and his boys. It was with Caleb that John had allowed Dean to take his first road trip away from the family, and Caleb that John trusted to take Dean on his first hunt away from John himself. Not that he hadn't been trailing them, covering their every move, an overwhelming feeling of paternal affection for not just his son, but the fatherless boy he was so fond of. Of course they both knew that he was ghosting them, because John had drilled that skill into them. And he had smiled in pride over how well trained and accomplished they both were.

Caleb knew about the demon in Minneapolis, and John trusted him with that too. Because it was all just too big, too much and too scary. As desperately as he wanted to do everything in secret and protect his boys as much as he could, he just couldn't do it all alone.

When the boys arrived in Lincoln Friday night, John was wiped out. Mentally and physically drained to the point of dropping from the activities of the past few weeks, with the body of the secretary the demon had been riding freshly buried and weighing heavily on John's mind.

Dean was distracted, his eyes flitting over to his brother's flushed face every few seconds in undisguised concern. Sammy was clearly ill. His long limbs limp and uncoordinated as he stumbled into the house. What John had been hoping to be a relaxing weekend with his kids was already going south before the Impala's engine even stopped ticking.

He felt a wave of frustration and annoyance pass over him, a rebuke on the tip of his tongue to chastise his eldest as to why he would drag his sick little brother three and a half hours in the car when they weren't on an active hunt.

And then he had felt like a bastard for even thinking that.

Reminding himself of all of the endless hours in the Impala with the boys. Crisscrossing the countryside while they coughed and sneezed in the backseat, listless one minute and twisting in the throes of fever dreams the next. What kind of example had he set for his kids when he himself had not hesitated to take them from whatever comfort might be had from a dark and quiet motel room, as seedy as it may have been, and forced them on the road.

Looking like a recalcitrant child waiting to be scolded, Dean had hovered for a moment, head bowed and fidgeting. Turning in an instant from cocky creature hunter to John's sorry little boy. Surprised when the rebuke never came as John drew his boys in for a hug, feeling Dean's body relax in his arms and the shockingly high warmth of Sam's.

Dean had immediately taken Sam upstairs and got him settled in one of the guest beds, returning a few minutes later, anxiety plastered all over his face. John knew what this weekend had meant for his oldest, and he desperately wanted it for him. Because Dean never asked for anything. Had always given two hundred percent of himself for anyone that needed it, and never taken a thing for himself.

And John couldn't shake that thought. Didn't want to admit how much of that taking he himself was responsible.

In the end, he actually had to make it an order for his firstborn to go out and have a little fun for a change, and the fact that it had taken something that extreme crushed John even further. That his boy would be so duty bound and faithful, he wouldn't even take an evening out on the town if he had a little sick brother at home, and only the unreliable hands of an absent father to leave Sam in.

Eventually, long after the two young men made their escape, John had collapsed on the sofa. A bottle of Jack in one hand and his journal in the other, and nothing but darkness on his mind. He barely heard the uncoordinated footfalls of his younger son jaggedly find their way down the stairs.

When Sammy appeared in the doorway of the living room, his sweat soaked hair stuck up in every direction, his hazel eyes glassy and bloodshot, he looked seven years old again. The fevered, aching look he shot his father searching.

 _Daddy, help me._

 _Daddy, I'm hurt._

 _Comfort me._

 _Fix me._

 _Daddy, I'm scared._

 _Make it stop._

 _Hold me._

 _Love me_

John had lifted his weary body to guide Sammy first to the kitchen for water and more fever reducers, and a cool washcloth for his burning forehead. Then to the sofa, helping his son lay down with his mess of brown locks pillowed on John's lap. He reached over to the chair nearby and snagged his own coat, tucking it around Sam's upper body. Watching his boy curl into it with a deep sigh of contentment as his sleep heavy eyes closed again, gingerly breathing through the increasingly loud rattle in his chest.

John was helpless where his son was concerned in a lot of ways right now. He was fighting. Would fight to the very last to protect his boys. He was learning too. More and more every day. But he was still helpless, and the reality of that was killing him. He didn't know where the road he was heading down was going to take him. To his salvation or to his damnation, maybe.

But this? This he could still do.


	7. November 2000

A/N I'm very grateful to everyone that has taken the time to review and contact me by PM to discuss the story! Also, a big thanks to the guest reviewer - Kathy. Fanfic doesn't let me respond to guest reviews, so thanks for taking the time to enjoy my work and give feedback. Also, if you haven't yet, please check out Becoming Winchester by Blossom9. A talented writer creating a great AU including Adam.

/

On March twenty-third, nineteen seventy-two, John Winchester was walking down Main Street in his hometown of Lawrence, Kansas. Recently back from Vietnam, John was out on a memory stroll, attempting to bury the horrors of the war behind him as he wandered from storefront to storefront. Reminiscing about simpler days, when his biggest worry had been whether or not he would help lead his high school baseball team to the finals.

Peeking into Bert's Barber Shop, where he had been getting his hair cut since he was just a small boy. Inside he could see Bert, well past retirement age, but still smiling, as he gave Mr. Mulroney, owner of one of the town's eating establishments, a quick trim. They waved at him through the window and he returned the gesture with a grin, glad to be back among the familiar and comfortable.

Across the street was Jay Bird's Diner. Reg brewed the best best coffee in Lawrence and made a mean plate of steak and eggs that could fortify a hungry man all day. John had spent many early mornings at the counter, availing himself of Reg's bottomless cuppa joe as he read the sports pages of _The Lawrence Herald_.

The Village Inn a couple of more doors down, where John's mother and stepfather held their low key wedding years ago. Just a handful of family and friends attending the simple ceremony, and ten year old John given the honor of Best Man. A nice day, even with his maternal grandparents making no secret of their disapproval of the match.

A short distance away was Rainbow Motors. A respectable, family run place that sold good quality used cars. John had a little military pay set by, and he was going to need some wheels now that he was back stateside. He didn't know quite what he was looking for just yet, wavering between functionality and frivolity. Welcomed back with open arms and working at his stepfather's garage, he was planning to save for a few weeks more before making a final decision, because some things just shouldn't be rushed. The family business had a good relationship with the car dealership and he already knew that Rainbow Motors would be the place to shop when he was ready.

He had shoved his hands in his pockets to warm them, because the late March air was still cool, and after the oppressive heat and humidity of Vietnam, it was hard getting used to it again. The collar of his jacket was pulled up, keeping a brisk breeze off the back of his neck as he wandered, his thoughts preoccupying his mind. He hadn't even realized how close he was to the door of the theater when it opened abruptly, and the next thing he knew he was knocked back on his ass on the cold cement sidewalk looking up into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

Stunned for a second, he almost thought he was seeing an angel shrouded by the haze of the streetlights that lent an eerie glow to her long tresses of golden curls. It was like a lightening strike that took his breath away, and if he had believed in that kind of thing, he would have sworn it was love at first sight.

He shook his head to get his bearings back as his assailant sputtered mortified apologies, and he couldn't help the genuine peals of laughter that burst out of his lungs. Amused beyond words that this petite little lady could have bested the big bad marine that had just completed his second tour in hell on earth.

Somehow, between her frantic attempts to assist him to his feet, and his temporary overall clumsiness from the crack his skull took on the sidewalk, he managed to stand and focus his eyes enough to drink in her perfect beauty. He stood, quiet and indulgent, while she made adorable attempts to brush off what could only have been imaginary dust from his clothes and rambled sincere regrets for the lump that was growing on his head. He grabbed one of her delicate, china smooth hands, the soft tinkle of an exquisite silver bracelet jingling from her tiny wrist, and spontaneously insisted that she make it up to him with a cup of coffee.

They strolled hand in hand to Mulroney's Diner, her idea, because John was loyal to Jay Birds, the closeness of contact with a relative stranger feeling perfectly natural. She felt it too, he could just tell. Striding by his side, she was the perfect fit, like she had been next to him for his entire life. Inside they claimed a back booth and spent the rest of the evening until closing time talking about everything and anything. The diner could have been completely empty, for all the attention they paid to anyone else, happy and content, just the two of them in their own little perfect bubble.

That was the night John met Mary Campbell.

Their courtship had been brief, and not without its challenges. Mary's father Samuel seemed to have a hate-on for John from the moment they met, regardless of how polite and respectful the young marine had tried so hard to be. John wasn't stupid. Soldiers coming back from the war weren't welcomed by everyone, the bloody politics of the military action not sitting well with some. He also knew that he currently had nothing more to offer as a candidate for Mary's affections other than his honorable intentions and a fledgling career at the garage.

It had been easier to gain acceptance from Deanna, Mary's mother. A kindhearted, but no nonsense woman that kept Samuel civil, like a tiger on a leash, on the few occasions that John was invited to the Campbell house for dinner. Their house was tidy and comfortable. Samuel ran a dry cleaning business that he never seemed comfortable talking about, and Deanna was a substitute teacher. John often found the two of them talking quietly in Samuel's study, pointedly closing the door when they caught John passing by.

Mary was sunshine and warmth. Hope and beauty. Boundless energy that pulled him around town by the hand during their evening strolls, and he found himself following willingly, because just being near her took a rock slide of weight from his shoulders. Her smiles and kisses healing the still raw and bleeding wounds of his soul. With her, he felt that _happily ever after_ was once again a possibility in a world where he had been engulfed in atrocities.

He fell for her wholly, and without choice.

In just a few short weeks, she had become his everything, and he committed his entire being to her happiness, feeling unswerving devotion and fierce protectiveness of this wildly amazing creature that had completely claimed his heart. She had inexplicable conflicts with her parents, especially Samuel. Only confiding in John that her father was forcing her life in a direction that she could no longer bear, and when she cried in his arms and asked him if he would one day take her far away, he had given her his promise without hesitation or regret.

Millie had been taken by surprise when her only son announced his intention to propose to the strange girl he had met only weeks earlier. Still feeling the long term ramifications of a failed marriage, and of how, after all those years, she had not recovered from the pain and shame of abandonment, John's mother was less than enthused. However, when she realized that her son was determined and there would be no changing his mind without risking an estrangement from him, Millie had eventually given her blessing, and offered her son the small red leather box containing the solitaire diamond ring that Henry had once slipped on her own finger.

Praying that, this time, it would bring a lifetime of happiness to the woman that wore it.

John was planning for their future from that moment on. If he was going to ask for her hand, it was time to settle down.

He withdrew the cash he had been saving for the car, intent on buying the VW van that had caught Mary's eye during a walk one day. At the dealership, he gave the beige bus another once over, prepared to fork over the down payment and make it official. It wasn't what he would have chosen to start their life together with. What he was really looking for was a sturdy vehicle that would protect Mary and the family that he dreamed of having with her. A little something with some flash and a powerful engine for his own tastes.

It was happy fate that the strange man he met earlier that morning pointed him in the direction of the Impala. Heavy, yet sleek. Large bench seats to comfortably accommodate a team of little Winchesters, he made the split second decision to buy her. It hadn't taken too much to convince Mary he had made the right choice. That first evening, as they drove around, she fell just as much in love with the old girl as he had.

In the early evening of May second, Mary had called him, crying bitter tears over the line, and begged him to hurry to her parents house. He was waiting outside with the new car as she ran towards him, her face distressed, her beautiful eyes red rimmed and wet when she threw herself in his arms. She clung to him, with a desperate fierceness of someone drowning, and as he held her tightly, he once again promised to take her away from the life that was breaking her.

With the red box in his pocket, he drove her to their favorite spot near the river. She was pensive, grief still marring her beautiful face. Shaking her head sadly, as if she almost couldn't bear the words she suspected were on the tip of his tongue.

" _There's things you don't know about me, John."_

Said so sadly, and with such finality, that they would have broken his heart if he wasn't already set on his course. John hadn't been able to lend them any weight at all. He simply didn't care what was in her past, because nothing would ever have been so big and unforgivable that they would change how he felt about her.

" _So? I will always love you for exactly who you are."_

Heart in his throat as he struggled to enunciate words enough to convey the entirety of his love for her, he was on the verge of making his proposal when the passenger door was yanked open, revealing the preternaturally angry face of Samuel Campbell. Mary's father had roughly yanked her from the car, even as John screamed protests and ran to her aid.

" _Dad, you're hurting me!"_

Mary's voice was trembling and afraid, and John was forcing himself to tamp down the soldier's desire to annihilate the source of his love's pain, reminding himself that this man would be his future father-in-law, and no matter how angry John was right now, he couldn't take the drastic action he craved that would make matters worse for Mary. The only thing saving Samuel Campbell in that moment.

" _Hey, take it easy!"_

John's mind was a red haze of rage, and to this day he wasn't able to remember most of what transpired in the few minutes that followed. He clearly remembered struggling with Samuel, but then it goes blank. The next thing he knew, he was coming to on the ground, cradled in Mary's arms with Samuel's dead body laying scant feet away from them. Mary had clung to him as if her life depended on it, and once he had gathered his own wits, he had taken her in his arms and whispered passionate assurances in her ear that he would always protect her.

The next few days had passed by in a blur.

Mary had tearfully recounted the story of how Samuel knocked John unconscious. Her father's adrenaline running high from the all encompassing despair of finding Deanna dead in the kitchen of their home with a broken neck. A freak accident resulting from a fall off a step stool as she reached for something in an upper cabinet. In his fervent desire to find their only child and bring her home, his emotions had been riding high enough to allow him to assault John, leading to Samuel having a heart attack after overtaxing himself in a physical altercation with the younger man.

It had been a tragedy of the highest order of magnitude.

His sweet Mary had lost her family over the course of just a couple of hours, and John hadn't been entirely sure that she would ever forgive him for whatever role he had played in it. Miraculously, she had, but refused to ever speak of that night again. There hadn't even been a funeral. Family members took control of the remains of the Campbells, and that was the last John saw of his beloved's parents.

Mary had needed some solitude for a while, and John understood that. Felt familiarity with the urge to crawl out of his own head space to process the cascade of emotions that poured over you when the reality you found yourself submerged in just got _too_ _much_.

With the help of Samuel's brother, Mary had managed to get her parent's affairs in order, wanting nothing more than to divest herself entirely of everything in the house and her father's business. John drove her to Rainbow Motors, where she immediately fell in love with the beautiful blue Camaro. Another Chevy, and every bit as sexy as the Impala.

That was when she started disappearing for days at a time.

At first, John had been worried. Worried that maybe she wasn't being honest with him about the depths of her grief. That she hid from him the obvious emotional collapse that was only natural under the circumstances. But she always returned to him with renewed strength and lightness in her eyes, as if whatever was occupying her time away from him was doing something to heal her smashed apart heart in ways that he himself had been unable to provide.

After a while, his worry turned to suspicion, with more than a flicker of nervous jealousy. Asking himself in the evenings, while he sat in the darkness of his parents' living room, if it wasn't more than possible that there was someone else responsible for the uplift in her demeanor. He looked for the signs, desperately searching for some clue that would confirm or discard the fears of her infidelity that would lead to the absolute destruction of himself.

They never materialized.

Each and every time she returned to him, he saw nothing but love and fervent devotion in her eyes. A genuine and deep seated relief of returning to the steadfast strength of his arms, and their love making passionate and consuming, leaving no room for any unknown specter to seep between the cracks of their union.

The little red box sat in a place of prominence on the dresser of the bedroom in the house they rented together. John withstood the condemnation and judging reprimands of his traditionalist mother who had been opposed to the marriage, but was even more deeply affronted by their premarital cohabitation. Because Mary simply wasn't ready. She didn't come out and say it, but it was clearly understood between them, and John loved her too fiercely and too completely to adhere to whatever society expected of them if it meant pushing her.

They lived comfortably this way, neither exerting pressure on the other, until one day, out of the blue, Mary woke up and made John breakfast in bed, the red leather box on his tray. When she asked him to go to Reno and elope, he didn't even have to think about it. They threw a bag in the Impala, and drove all day and all night, officially marrying on August nineteenth, nineteen seventy-five.

It was one of the happiest days of his life.

The deep contentment he felt was shattered a few months later that year, although it wasn't from his newly married state. A drunk driver, over-served and unconcerned, careened into the oncoming traffic, heavy with revelers coming home after New Year's eve celebrations, in the early morning hours of January first, nineteen seventy-six. In a split second, John's mother's and stepfather's lives were snuffed out like a candle. He might have laughed over the ironic coincidence of losing both his parents at once like Mary had, if only he wasn't so bereft with grief over their passing.

Mind numb, he found himself in the same position of settling their affairs. It hadn't been an enviable prospect. The country was in the throes of an economic depression, and the garage and the house were heavily mortgaged. In the end, the bank took both, because John wasn't his step-father's legal heir and, being so young, had no substantial material assets to his name to make him look financially worthy enough to take on the debt.

He caught a lucky break when the owner of Woodson's Automotive took pity on him and offered him a job. Mr. Woodson had been a friend of the family for years, often engaged in a cooperative referral of customers to and from John's step-father. He knew how talented John was, and how destructive the blow to him had been. Mr. Woodson took John on at his own place, even though it was a strain on his own already precarious cash flow situation.

John and Mary made a comfortable home at the little rented house on Robintree. It was affordable, and just big enough for the two of them without feeling cramped. John worked hard, and Mary kept house, welcoming him home every day with the same passionate intensity that they had shared since the first day they met.

She still escaped for a day or two, here and there, sometimes coming home with wounds that were explained away with the flimsiest of excuses. John tucked them all away in a deep recess of his mind because, in truth, he just simply didn't want to know. In their bed at night, her warm body molded to his own, he accepted their lives for what they were. Happy to just have her by his side and in his arms.

In the spring of seventy-eight, Mary had whispered in his ear one night, as they lay spent from an especially exuberant romp between the sheets, that she was carrying his child. John lay prone on the bed as his mind flooded with a tidal wave of emotions.

 _Surprise_ , because while they both wanted children, they had never really talked about the timing. _Sadness_ , that their child would never know his or her grandparents, and then _anger_ for the same reason. _Fear_ that he wouldn't be able to provide for Mary and their baby. An even deeper _anxiety_ that John would fail at fatherhood, the way Henry had. Finally, absolute _elation_ , over the knowledge that he and the woman he loved more than anything were creating a life, after John had taken so many of them.

A new feeling of purpose had come upon John during Mary's pregnancy. The rented house wasn't good enough to start their family in. John had wanted a home all of their own to welcome their little one. Two years of working hard and saving had given them a small nest egg and, with that, they went house hunting, finally falling in love with one with a small porch and three good sized bedrooms.

John worked long hours at the garage that was now run by Mr. Woodson's oldest son, after his father's untimely death. In the evenings after dinner, and on weekends, he puttered around the house and did renovation projects, determined that his child would have a happy and comfortable home.

At night, in bed, he placed gentle kisses and soft caresses all along Mary's swelling nude body as she lay by his side, watching in rapt fascination as their baby grew inside of her. Filled with a love that took his breath away, he worshiped at her altar and gave thanks to a higher power for the peace of his life.

Dean fought his way kicking and screaming into the world on January twenty-fourth, nineteen seventy-nine, and immediately became the center of his parents' universe.

John took one look at that tiny, red, infuriated face and his world spun completely around on its axis. A love so pure and complete engulfed him, and he knew, in that moment, that he would never be able to do justice in describing the overwhelming joy he felt holding his firstborn.

That day, while Mary and the baby slept off the physical exhaustion of the birth, John had hurried out to his bank and stuck a hundred bucks into a savings account for his son's future. He wanted Dean to have everything he wanted in life. Even a college education, if that is what the boy chose, because John was not Henry, and he vowed to his child that he would show him the real measure of a man.

Dean's every little move dictated his parents' lives from that moment on. They lived for his laughter, fretting over his tears. He was shamelessly fussed over and adored. The light in the darkness of his father's nightmares and his mother's still raw grief. With him, they both found a nearly incomprehensible bliss as they stood over his crib in wordless amazement to his perfection.

He grew fast. Strong and steady, a fierce determination in his beautiful green eyes. An ever-present underlining of gentle sweetness in his smiles and chubby armed hugs. He was motion personified, fearless and adventurous, needing only the attentive approval of his father and mother to keep him happy and secure.

He adored his parents. His mother most of all, and when Mary put an end to her wandering and sold her Camaro a year after Dean's birth, John felt an enormous pressure release itself from around his heart.

John didn't know how he could possibly be made even more content until another whisper in his ear in the dark told him that they were about to do it all again a few years later.

Sam slipped into their lives on May second, nineteen eighty-three, and his father didn't fail to take note of the significance of the date. He hoped against hope that the arrival of their second son would help heal the raw wounds that his beloved still harbored over that particular anniversary.

Unlike his older brother, Sam's arrival was quiet, a pensive thought already deep in the furrowed brow of the infant with a shock of John's brown hair. Sammy regarded his new surroundings with an air of judging introspection, as though he was determining whether or not to find his parents worthy or lacking. Finally, he cooed and seemed to relax in John's arms, and the marine felt a wave of relief wash over him as if he managed to pass some sort of test.

The first six months of Sam's life were not as smooth as his brother's had been.

John had repeated the pledge he had given to the newborn Dean to his new son. Starting a savings account for Sammy, just like he had been contributing faithfully to Dean's for the past few years.

After the initial skepticism by the infant, Sammy was all love and cuddles, and John felt that his little family might be complete just as it was.

Determined to give his boys everything, John enlisted in the Marine Forces Reserves on the weekends for the extra benefits for his family. Unexpectedly, the training brought all of his repressed nightmares of the war screaming back at light speed, and he quickly found himself mentally flailing from the darkness that had surrounded him during that time in his life. Mary tried to help him, but she had her hands full with two little ones that needed her far more than John did, and they began to fight in a way that had never marred their marriage before.

For one regrettable week, John had even moved out of their home, unwilling to bring the pain he was harboring back to stain the happy home life of his wife and boys.

Somehow, they managed to push past their troubles, and the little family was united and whole again until that terrible night of November second, nineteen eighty-three.

/

John was sitting on the area rug covering the cement floor of the basement bedroom. Through the bleariness of his wet eyes, and the muddled comprehension of a mind soaked in Jose Cuervo, he took in his surroundings and appraised the state of the walls. The painful memories of the past were barreling down on him without mercy tonight, like they always did on this day as the years passed by. It hurt to breathe at all, really. Especially knowing that his beloved couldn't anymore.

He missed Mary, more than he could ever possibly enunciate or comprehend.

She had been the other half of him, and all these years without her had been like trying to stumble his way through life on one leg. Bleeding out and swaying dangerously without being able to ever really regain his balance. The depths of his despair over failing to bring her justice consumed him, like a fire sucking all the oxygen from the world, and if it wasn't for their boys, he would have suffocated long ago, and gone willingly just to be with her again.

The cement walls had been covered recently. Dean's slick tongue had bartered November's rent in exchange for his purchase of sheetrock and other supplies, along with the labor to install them. The landlady was no fool, recognizing a good bargain when she heard one. The weekend Sam had been so sick with the flu, John followed his boys back home. He and Dean had loaded up the bed of the Sierra with materials, and together they had installed the panels while their youngest slept upstairs in the comfort of his own bed.

John's firstborn had spent the next couple of weeks meticulously filling the seams and nail holes with tape mesh and joint compound before sanding everything down. They were ready for paint now, but in his boozed addled brain, John couldn't help the humorless observation that their current state was a perfect match for him already.

Plain, cold and gray. Their seams standing out stark and raw. Unfinished and ugly.

Just like John felt about himself most days.

Overhead he could hear the steady footfalls of his eldest son. Moving, moving. _Always_ moving. That was Dean. Probably cleaning up the dinner he had made for them all. John hadn't been able to join his boys at the table.

Not tonight.

Every year on the day, no matter what was going on, John made sure to be with his children. Not that it made it any easier on the boys. Because John was never in any kind of shape to comfort them. Grieving and wrecked without exception, he was continuously emotionally and mentally unavailable to them, even as he insisted on burdening them with his presence. Later, when the clouds cleared, and he came back to his senses after a day or two drowning in a pool of his own depression, he felt the deep roiling of guilt for pushing them away at a time when they were also in need, and he knew that there would never be any way to make that up to them.

It was Dean who insisted on spending the money renovating the basement. John thought it was a waste of resources for a house that didn't belong to them. An aesthetic excess he didn't need for himself. His desire for creature comforts had evaporated with the passing of his wife.

But his son was insistent.

The money already put aside from a recent sale of a rebuilt BMW. Reminding his dad that John had _promised_ this would happen, and the guilty father who had broken so many of them relented, for the sole reason that it would afford him a day spent working alongside his boy. Showing Dean some normal instruction on home repair from a loving father that had once worked on their own house.

John had forked over the wad of cash he had accumulated for November's rent and told Dean to pay Sam's tuition for the month instead.

God, he was _so proud_ of Dean. Proud of them both. Somehow, in the middle of all of this chaos and his chronic absenteeism, they were growing up strong and capable. He wished he was able to tell them that more. They deserved it, he knew. If only it wasn't for this stubborn little nagging in the back of his mind that endlessly cautioned him to be reserved in his praise. That to make them overconfident in their undertakings would make them compliant and lazy. And they couldn't afford that kind of luxury.

Not yet.

Someday.

Leaning against the bed frame, the floor cold, even through the rug, chilling him, he twisted his wedding ring around in perpetual frenzied circles.

"I wish you were here to see them, Mary. We did so good."

/

Dean hadn't wanted a sibling.

Perfectly content in a world where his parents' happiness revolved around his own. A prince, fawned over and pampered in his own little kingdom where he was John's buddy and Mary's little boy.

When his mommy and daddy told him that he was going to have a little brother or sister soon, he was upset over the idea that he would have to share his parents with the new intruder. Dean wasn't even able to have a puppy, because Daddy had said that they were too much work, and now there was this new person coming to invade their happy home, and it _wasn't fair_ , and Dean couldn't understand why his parents needed another baby when they already had him.

A crying needy stranger, like the Millersons next door had, taking up Mommy's time and destroying Dean's toys.

Before long, Mommy was too tired to play with him as much as she used to, and she was getting bigger in the tummy. Dean watched with increasing worry, wondering why little brother or sister was making Mommy look like she was going to explode. What kind of monster was this tiny interloper anyway? The four year old's little face was in a constant state of frowning over something terrible happening to his mother.

Baby Sammy was a tiny, squirming bundle when Dean's parents brought his little brother home for the first time. Daddy had lifted Dean into a chair in the living room, showing the little boy how to position himself, and Mommy very carefully placed the wriggling infant in Dean's waiting arms while Daddy took a photo.

He had looked into the baby's scrunched up face, and tried to figure out how he felt about the stranger, and Sammy had stared back at him with wide eyed wonder, already comfortable and safe in his brother's arms. Dean held him tight in his arms, mindful of the fragility of the tiny human. When Mommy wanted to take the baby back, Dean had frowned, liking the warm weight held against his chest. As soon as Sammy relaxed, Dean's fears and jealousy did as well, as he watched his little brother nod off to sleep.

From that moment on, Dean acquired an all encompassing protective instinct over the bitty creature, and when Mommy would tell him to _watch out for Sammy_ while she went to the kitchen to heat a bottle, it was a job the four year old took seriously.

One of the only clear memories Dean had of _that night_ , was being entrusted to carry Sammy out of the burning house. When it had finally become clear that Mommy was gone, Dean remembered what she had always told him, and began to watch over his little brother's every move, determined to keep the baby from harm. Even going so far as to climb into the baby's crib at night to comfort Sammy, when his little brother would cry out the tears of loneliness and grief for both boys over the loss of their mother.

As the years progressed, with Dad becoming more and more engulfed in the supernatural world, hell bent for leather on finding what happened to their mom, Dean kept a steadfast watch over his little brother. Sammy was his responsibility, and it was Dean's job to keep him safe and protected. Dad had never even needed to tell him.

Overnight the boys had lost their mom, and with her, by extension, a large part of the father that John had once been. Sammy was too small to remember what life had been like before the fire, and Dean became determined to make sure that his little brother was given some sort of understanding of what it had been like to be loved and adored by two whole and happy parents. It's what his mom would have wanted him to do, and Dean wasn't going to disappoint her.

He was little, but he tried hard, and it wasn't always easy, because Dad was so different now that sometimes he scared Dean. Coming home after being gone for a few days to places that he wouldn't talk about. Sometimes Dad came home bleeding and damaged, looking like any minute he would burst into tears. Lost in a world of misery that he refused to explain. It seemed like they were forever moving around from one unfamiliar place to another, their home gone in a memory that faded a little more every day over the years.

For Sammy' sake, he tried to make it seem like a game. An adventurous game where they were explorers always going out and seeing new things, and his little brother had never really known the difference. Never known that this wasn't what life was supposed to be. The life that Dean had once had, and never would again.

Sam was kept in the dark about the real reason that Dad was gone so often, and Dean was happy about that, because all too many nights his own sleep was interrupted by nightmares, dark and twisted and terrifying. Worrying about Dad, and what he was facing when he was a way from them. Worry about what would happen to them if their father never came back. Or if he would one night burn on the ceiling of their motel room the way their mother once had.

He shared none of these troubles, because it was his job to shield Sammy from things that could hurt him, and his little brother was going to get a chance to be an innocent kid for a while. Be protected from knowing too much about the horrors of the world around them for as long as Dean could manage it.

Dean tried to make up for their mother's absence as much as he could, even knowing that his fledgling attempts at standing in for her were nothing more than cold comfort.

When Dad was too hurt, or too distracted, or too drunk to care for Sammy, Dean stepped in, sparing his father the task of tending to the boys when his firstborn was capable of doing it for him. He made sure that Sammy was bathed and fed. Tucked into bed at night with a story, because the kid loved books from an early age. He learned how to make a simple version of tomato rice soup that wasn't nearly as good as Mom's had been, trying his hardest to take care of Sammy when he was sick like their mother had taken care of Dean.

And when Sammy had finally found out the truth of their lives, Dean had comforted his brother as he cried himself to sleep over the scariness and unfairness of it all, and renewed his pledge to protect his brother with everything he had. Dad had finally come home, a day too late for Christmas, and Dean had cared for him too, trying his best to smooth over the ruffled feathers of both father and brother, intent on keeping his remaining family members as happy and safe and together as he could.

Because every night Dean had promised his mother that he would, and it was a promise he meant to keep.

/

There was a low buzz in the mud room off the kitchen, and Dean put down the rag he was washing the table with to go and transfer the load of clothes from the washer to the dryer. The landlady had been casually apologetic when she told them that the house _did_ have laundry facilities, but that the washer was currently broken. It hadn't taken Dean long to tinker with the old Maytag, and now it was running like clockwork again. A blessing to their budget that they no longer needed to make frequent trips to a laundromat.

He was pleased to see that the stain remover recommended by the mother of one of Sammy's teammates had done a good job getting the grass stains of out his little brother's jersey. Happy that another run through wasn't going to be necessary, he turned the setting on the dryer to delicate and started the cycle before loading the washer with Sam's school uniforms. Kid went through clothes like crazy these days.

At least they weren't scrounging for quarters every five seconds anymore. Before he went to bed, he would throw in a load of Dad's stuff too, because Lord knew his father wouldn't be in any shape to do it himself, and Dean was pretty sure the man was down to his last clean tee.

The kitchen still smelled like the meatloaf that he painstakingly assembled for dinner. He didn't think it came out bad for a first try. Not nearly as good as... _Mom's_...had been, but Dean gave it a shot. Sam ate it without complaint, for once, and Dean wasn't looking for teeth on that particular gift horse because his little brother could be a picky little bitch when it came to food.

The kid needed to ingest more calories if he was going to try and build up a little extra muscle. Sammy was shooting up fast, his body elongating in a gangling Stretch Armstrong kind of way. Maybe some protein shakes were the way to go, at this rate. He'd pick some up on the next trip to the grocery store.

He thought about going downstairs and checking to see if Dad had bothered to eat something from the plate Dean had brought him earlier, but he quickly decided against it. His father would eat when he was ready, which probably wouldn't be tonight if history was anything to go by.

Returning to the table, he finished wiping the surface clean before washing out the cloth in the sink and hanging it to dry on the faucet. The house was too quiet, but Dean couldn't make himself turn on the TV or play any music.

Too many things reminded him of _her_ , and he was barely keeping it together as it was. All it was going to take was one small push off the edge, and he would go spiraling into an abyss of razor sharp memories, and he wasn't quite sure if he could find his way back to the surface again if that happened.

Off to the side of the sink were the royal blue latex gloves that Sam wore when washing the dishes after dinner. Dean hadn't been able to resist the _Watch out for your manicure_ , _Princess_ comment that was a completely reasonable reaction to his little brother's insistence that they buy them. Blue, not yellow, as if that little distinction made wearing them less girly.

Sam had gone upstairs right after his chores were finished tonight, and Dean hadn't tried to stop him. The last thing he needed today was his little brother's sad poop face, or some uncomfortable caring and sharing moment when all Dean wanted to do was try and keep his heart from disintegrating.

It destroyed him, more than his kid brother could possibly realize, that Dean couldn't help him understand how much Mom had meant to them all. How her smile and her laughter and gentle touch kept them warm and afloat.

He had to stop.

Couldn't bear to keep thinking about her and how the loss of her had scarred his very essence.

Better to keep busy.

Pay homage to her by doing the things she would want done. Scrub the counter, because she didn't like messes. Then mend the rip in Dad's green flannel and try not to think about what might have caused it. Cut up the melon in the fridge for Sam's breakfast in the morning, so that he could be sure that his little brother ate something before school without coercion.

Keep moving. _Always_ moving.

Because to stop would mean that the excruciating assault of memories would threaten his very sanity, his very ability to breathe, and he couldn't allow that. Like a shark that could never stop swimming. No rest for the wicked or the weak.

He needed to be strong.

For his father, who on this day became a shadow of the man he once was, and needed his firstborn's steady shoulder to lean on.

For his little brother, who needed someone to take care of the little things in his life, because he had never had a mother to do them in his memory.

To be the glue that held his family together when life proved to be too hard, and too cruel, and too much to fight.

He reached into his back pocket and grabbed his wallet. Gently withdrawing the creased photo he kept tucked away behind his assortment of aliases and credit cards. There she was. Still as beautiful as she was on the last day, when she had tucked him into bed and told him that angels were watching over him. Her arm around his four year old neck as they smiled. He gently rubbed the photo and thought about how it was the last time he felt truly happy.

"Don't worry, Mom. I promise, I'll take care of them."

/

When Sam was in first grade, Dad brought them to a new town a week before Mother's Day. Sam didn't know it then, but there had been a rash of killings in the town involving the removal of the victims' eyes and tongues. Something John had never seen before, but suspected that it was probably in his particular wheelhouse.

It had been an innocent mistake by the teacher.

As part of their afternoon art session, she sat her group of first graders down at the activities table and gave them colorful pieces of construction paper, glitter, stickers, markers and glue sticks. It was a simple assignment.

Make a card for Mom.

The teacher wasn't insensitive. After almost a year of parent/teacher conferences, she knew which families had moms and which didn't. The kids without a mother in the house had already been separated for the day and given the chance to join an afternoon viewing of Sesame Street in the neighboring second session of first grade.

Overworked and understaffed, it was unfortunate oversight that she didn't think to ask Sammy, the new boy, about his own family.

Faced with crippling nerves over upsetting his new teacher by not doing the assignment. Combined with the petrified reluctance of making a card for his absent mother, knowing that talking about her only made Daddy and Dean mad at him. Sam had sat helpless in his seat, not knowing what to do, with fat tears of fear and frustration, and then, ultimately, humiliation, streaming down his face.

His teacher's frantic attempts to get him to tell her why he was crying only upset him more, and by the time he was hysterical and sobbing, Dean had somehow managed to hear his brother's distress from a long hallway away. Darting out of his fifth grade classroom, with the chastising tones of his own teacher echoing behind him, as he ran to Sammy's aid.

Sammy had flung himself into Dean's arms, and his big brother stumbled for a minute under the unexpected weight before managing to drop himself into a tiny chair, where Sammy scrambled onto his lap and held on tight.

The school had fortunately been able to reach John by phone because, just by dumb luck, he was in the town library researching, as opposed to actively on the hunt. Ten minutes later, he strode down the hallway of the elementary school, tall and brooding and clearly _pissed_. Dean had taken one look at his father's foreboding face and paled under his spate of tan freckles. Snapping to attention, even as he held Sammy sniffling under his arm.

The boys were expecting their father to be angry, because he had warned them a million times to behave themselves and not cause any problems at their schools. But after John got the gist of the trouble, he had simply picked up his teary six year old and grabbed his ten year old by the hand, something he _never_ did with Dean anymore, turned on his heel and walked out.

Dad didn't yell. He didn't rant or remind them of the risks of being noticed. He leaned against the hood of the Impala and held them in his arms until they were both calm and breathing easily again. Then he took the boys out for ice cream, not mentioning one word about what happened in the school. Later that night, John had killed the witch that was responsible for the mutilated corpses, and the next day they were on the road again.

/

There were three bags of candy sitting untouched on Sam's dresser, and the very sight of them offended him.

He hated Halloween. Hated it with the disdain he only reserved for people who abused animals, and getting stitches without anything to numb the pain.

There were no pleasant memories attached to it from his childhood. Their lives were scary enough as it was, and he certainly had never needed some plastic mask to add to the horrors he actually saw in real life.

It didn't help that Dad mentally checked out for a few days right about that time every year.

When Sam was little, and had wanted the fun of an outing with other kids, dressed up and getting free candy, his father had never been able to summon up the will to take the boys to a store and drop a couple of bucks on the dime store disguises that all the other students at school had.

Dean had tried to make it up to him a few times. Either rummaging around the hotel rooms for something that could pass, maybe, possibly, as a disguise so at least Sam wasn't the only kid at the school parties just wearing his street clothes. Or, worse, risking a five fingered discount to snag a tube of make up to paint Sam's face with, or a flimsy, plastic wand, so he could pretend to be a magician, and potentially incurring an ass beating of epic proportions if Dad caught him.

Not that they were allowed to go out trick-or-treating anyway.

In Dad's fucked up world, Halloween was a night of actual spirit activity, and John wasn't having his kids running around, unprotected, amid the potential of real danger and chaos. So Sam would have to sit in school the next day, hearing about all the fun the other children had, big piles of candy in their lunch boxes, while Sam sat quiet and tried not to be noticed as he ate the battered PB&J sandwich that Dean gave him for his own meal.

Later, as the years passed, and Dean had more autonomy over their spending, he always bought Sam a bag of Halloween candy to enjoy during the night, in an attempt to take the sting out of missing out with the other kids. He would also wait for the after Halloween sales, and buy a couple of other bags cheap the next day, so that they could enjoy sweets for a little longer.

Sam was past the days when a bag of candy could make up for missing out on a regular activity because of what their family did.

And he was really not going to be appeased this year. When he was _supposed_ to be able to do normal things like regular guys.

Like taking his hot girlfriend to a Halloween party.

Well, kind of, _sort of_ , his hot girlfriend, anyway.

Dean had managed to get Dad in a charitable mood, the weekend Sam was so sick. While the two of them were playing Bob Vila in the basement, his big brother convinced their father that Sam wouldn't be in any danger going to the Homecoming dance at his school the next week.

He had even sweetened the pot by assuring Dad that he would offer himself up as a chaperone, just to make sure that little brother was well guarded in case anything supernatural just happened to be, on the random off-chance, lying in wait at a freakin' dance in the gym of a Catholic school.

Sam had nearly laughed himself sick at that thought, but somehow his big brother conned the adults on the planning committee into thinking he would be a responsible guardian of the students attending.

Dean Winchester.

The guy that was more likely to spike the punch than keep horny teenagers on the straight and narrow. It still amused him.

With consent grudgingly obtained, Sam had asked Kristin to the dance, and her squeals of excitement were still ringing in his ears a day later. That next Friday, Dean had given him money to pay for a corsage and tickets to the dance, as well as the keys to the Impala to pick up his date. Wearing his pretext suit that Dad had gotten for him last year, once Sam started looking old enough to pass for an intern during investigations, he had picked Kristin up and spent the next few hours having the time of his life.

Kristin was edged out of the crown for Homecoming Queen by the slightly more popular Jenny Caldwell, the head cheerleader, but she did get a spot on the court. Sam had clapped wildly in the audience when the silly rhinestone tiara was placed on her head because she looked so incredibly happy. He and his brother were left utterly shocked, a few minutes later, when Sam's own name was called for a place on the court as well.

Sam was still a fairly unknown quantity at the school, but apparently Kristin had enough pull to influence the votes, and the other students had enough curiosity about the new guy, to elect him.

They danced, and socialized, and drank the spiked punch that left Sam wondering if it really was his brother's doing by the grin on Dean's face. Although, probably not, since his big brother would have kicked his ass for driving his Baby under the influence. Sam had stopped at one cup just to be safe anyway. Towards the end of the evening, Sam led Kristin out to the Impala to drive her home, and the two of them had spent several pleasurable minutes in a heavy make-out session in the front seat.

Sam had waltzed into the house exactly thirteen minutes late for his midnight curfew. Dean was _pissed_ , glaring at him testily as he held out his hand for the return of the car keys, but otherwise let the infraction go without further comment, and the younger brother headed up to bed, his mind swimming with the pleasure of a perfect evening out with a beautiful girl.

During the next couple of weeks, Sam spent as much time dating Kristin as he could. It was hard with the limited free time at his disposal. He had to be home after five for the mandatory training that no coaxing or pleading on his part persuaded his big brother to release him from. He was allowed to go back out afterwards, provided that Dean knew exactly where he was and who he was with, and that he was home by his school night curfew of nine o'clock.

Something that Sam wasn't about to share with Kristin.

A few times he had managed to take her out for dinner. Dean was going overboard in his attempts to give his little brother _normal_. Sam had a list of assigned household chores. Some of them being things that neither brother ever had to worry about before, like raking leaves in the front lawn, but that was fine, because Sam enjoyed embracing the mundane of suburbia.

So his brother had also started to slip him some money every week as sort of an allowance, because Dean didn't need to be told what it felt like to be a teenage guy with no cash of his own in his pocket. Sam was trying to squirrel most of it away, because he already knew that his college applications were going to take money he couldn't come out and ask his brother for, but he still splurged a little on taking Kristin out on the few occasions he could wrangle permission.

As a compromise, Dean encouraged him to invite friends home for an evening, so Sam had asked some of the guys from his team to come over, and Kristin brought some of her cheerleader friends. Dean ordered a stack of budget busting pizzas, determining the expense worthy when it meant that the kids in Sam's new social circle could discretely be put through the appropriate tests.

When Kristin started hinting about a Halloween party being thrown at the home of one of the football players, Sam already knew he would never be allowed to go.

For one, Halloween was falling on a Tuesday this year, and even if Sam would be permitted out, he still would have to be home early for curfew, and the party wasn't even starting until eight o'clock. It didn't matter anyway, since the Winchester brothers didn't leave the relative safety of wherever they were currently making their home on the night of Halloween.

 _Ever_.

It was a losing prospect to even try to argue for consent, because he didn't need to go another few rounds with his father to know it would never happen. Although it didn't stop him from appealing to his big brother for leniency.

Dean had been sympathetic, but firm, because he actually agreed with Dad on this one, and that discussion had ended with heated words, a couple of insults, a few threats, and Sam slamming his bedroom door shut. When Dean had knocked on his door the next evening after dinner, because Sam was still too angry to keep him company, and gave his little brother the traditional bags of candy, Sam had dismissively shoved them to the dresser and slammed the door again.

Because sometimes Dean just didn't understand him _at all_.

Sam wasn't a little kid anymore who could just be placated into submission over the jacked up way they were raised, and if his brother was paying any attention to him, _in the least_ , he would know that Sam didn't eat candy anymore.

Well, he did. Sometimes. Occasionally. Okay, a lot. But that _wasn't_ the point!

Maybe it was the fact that today was Mom's anniversary. Or maybe because Kristin couldn't stop talking about how much fun the party had been. Maybe it was both. Either way the youngest Winchester was feeling pretty miserable right about now.

Sam lay on his bed, on his stomach, arms wrapped around his pillow and staring out the window, since he could never quite manage to look at the ceilings above any bed he ever slept in.

On one hand, he knew he was being an asshole. His big brother had been nothing but kind, helpful and understanding the past few months. Sam wasn't stupid. He was aware of everything Dean was giving up to give him this chance. He could tell that Dean missed being on the road. That his brother paced the house like a caged lion when he thought Sam wasn't paying attention.

Maybe it was the knowledge that he knew Dean was expecting him to get his desire for regular life out of his system and then get down to the life of a full time hunter.

They hadn't talked about it.

Not in so many words, but Sam knew his brother. Could already guess that this was the expected outcome after his graduation. Dad was expecting it too. Sam could see it in his eyes during every meet up. His father had been trying way too hard lately to suppress the hunting talk in some kind of twisted patronizing attempt to make it seem like this was a vacation from hunting, and not the launch of Sam's college plans, which it was actually going to be if Sam had anything to say about it.

This is what Mom would have wanted for him. He was sure of it.

 _Before_ , their family had been a run-of-the-mill, every day, average nuclear unit. They had a normal house. Dad co-owned his own normal business. Mom was a normal suburban housewife. Dean had friends and played T-ball. Sam was pretty sure that somewhere in that cozy picture perfect life was a backyard where they had barbecues too.

Mom wouldn't have wanted to see her husband crazed and strung out most of the time. Her kids running on a perpetual wheel of terror as they faced down horrors that were sometimes so evil, even Hollywood backed away from writing about them. Dragged from town to town like luggage in a lonely and sad drifter existence. Wondering every day if it would be their last.

At least, that's what Sam assumed.

In reality, he didn't know. Mostly because the only two family members he had left unanimously refused to talk about her. Not that he hadn't asked a million questions over the years, thirsty for any scrap of information they would reluctantly give, like people passing by a beggar, homeless and hungry on the street, just needing the tiniest amount of mercy and kindness to get through the day.

Sam shouldn't have to beg for information about his own mother.

While it was true that he didn't have the relationship with her that his father and brother had, it didn't mean that he was a familial afterthought. She belonged to him, too. He was her baby, and if anyone deserved to have details given to them about what she was like, and the hobbies she had, and the dreams she dreamed, it was the son who didn't have one clear memory of her to sustain him.

Dad and Dean guarded their memories of her like selfish pit bulls. They hid all the details of the family life _before_ like greedy hoarders, unwilling to share even the tiniest fraction of insight with a boy that just wanted to know his mom. Sam knew they were hurting. That thoughts of his mother caused them physical pain, but couldn't they see that he was hurting too? In a way that they may not be able to comprehend, but they could do something about?

It wasn't _fair_.

It wasn't fair at all to ask Sam to devote himself wholly to a crusade waged in the name of the mother he wasn't even allowed to ask about. He could summon up some anger, sure, because as a son he should feel the need to fight for justice on her behalf. That's what a good son would do, right?

But it still wasn't fair.

If he was expected to be willing to devote the entirety of his existence to hunt down her killer, and the killers of other mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, shouldn't he at least be given the chance to hear about what kind of person his own mother was? Shouldn't his father and brother, who had known her as a real living person, be willing to paint a multi-dimensional, vividly technicolor painting of her so that Sam could understand exactly who he was fighting for?

Not shut him out and demand blind loyalty and obedience, when all he wanted to know was what her laugh sounded like. Or what kind of perfume she wore. What her favorite flower was, and did she like soccer?

Why was that so much to ask?

Their lives were a mess. Their little family warped and damaged and mutilated by a life lived in the shadowy underbelly of evil and depravity.

Sam was going to get out. He was going to do it for his mother, because surely Mary Winchester, normal mom and loving wife, would want to see at least one of her kids live his life in the daylight. One of her boys was going to walk in the sunshine and be safe. He owed it to her.

The alarm clock on his nightstand glared red at him as his mind wandered. Realizing that it was almost time for lights out, he pushed himself up from his bed to wash up and get undressed. Because of the day, Dad was here with them, as he always was.

At least physically anyway.

In a regular year, John would already be passed out by now, his face wearing a mask of naked grief so raw and excruciating, even in unconsciousness, that Sam couldn't bear to look at him. A parade could march through their motel room and never breach his father's absent mind in tequila soaked sleep.

This was opposite year.

Where day was night and black was white. For all he knew, Dad might decide that this was the year he was going to take a moonlight drunken stroll through the house, and Sam wasn't going to risk his wrath and get punished for not being in bed with the lights off by ten.

Especially not when booze tended to make Dad more likely to lash out, and especially not on this particular day.

He washed his face, and brushed his teeth, pulling on his usual tee and pajama pants before flipping off the light switch. In the darkness of his bedroom, he knelt on the side of his bed and clasped his hands in prayer. He didn't really know who he was praying to every night. God, or the angels. Maybe saints. Maybe his mother.

Who knows how heaven really works.

All Sam knew was that he had to have some kind of faith. Something to save him from the wreckage of the life they lived.

Deep down, in a pit of his own being so remote he could barely reach it, he knew there was a darkness inside of him building. Sometimes he wondered if it was a byproduct of the terrible things they had done. That the evil they dealt with so often was somehow tainting him. _Claiming him_. When his temper got the best of him, he wondered if it was a symptom, a residue of a young life spent in the presence of real malevolence.

He prayed hard that night. Harder than he normally did. For guidance to control his anger. For patience of his failings. Understanding of his honorable goals. Forgiveness for not being a better son and brother. He prayed for his father's and brother's safety. For his mother's love and eternal peace.

And when he couldn't pray anymore, he climbed into his bed and took the framed photo from his nightstand in his hands. Illuminated by the light gray ambient light of the moon, shining brightly in his window, he looked at the young, happy faces of his parents. Dad in his fatigues, and Mom looking so beautiful next to him.

It was only a copy of the original photo. Dad kept it in his journal, plucking it out from time to time when especially melancholy. A few years ago, Dean had sneaked it out of the worn pages, just long enough to run to an all night Kinkos in the city where they were crashing for a few days. He made a copy for Sam that night, encasing it in a frame from the gift shop next to to the motel.

It was Sam's most precious possession.

"I'm going to make you proud, Mom."

/

It wasn't the scariest creature Dean had ever encountered, but it was still _fugly_.

Pasty, slick and rough skinned. A huge gaping maw that stared back at him.

As it lay motionless in front of him, the young hunter circled around it in wary anticipation as he plotted his next move. He was prepared. His blades were sharpened. A large supply of salt within easy reach, just in case things got difficult.

He had spent a large part of the last week completing the research he knew he was going to need, because Dad had drilled into both of his boys the absolute requirement of being completely informed and prepared at all times.

He glared at it with a critical eye. Dean had taken on his first werewolf when he was sixteen for fuck's sake. He certainly could handle this.

"Christ, Dean. It's just a turkey. Put it in the oven, already. I'm not eating KFC this year."

Dean looked up from the kitchen table and smacked the back of Sam's head as his little brother strolled through the kitchen.

"Ow! Quit it, jerk."

"Don't rush me, bitch. Perfection takes time."

/

Thanksgiving dinner wasn't perfect, regardless of his brother's noble intentions.

Dean and Dad had cooked. Which was already surreal enough in Sam's mind, since Dad had never made them a Thanksgiving dinner in their entire lives. Of course it had been Dean spearheading the whole operation, but still.

The turkey was a little dry, the mashed potatoes a little soupy. The stuffing was mushy, and somehow they even managed to make the jarred gravy lumpy. The rolls were a bit burned on the bottom, and the green bean casserole that Dean had assumed would pass for a vegetable in Sam's world looked like a big pan of snot.

It was still the best meal that Sam had ever tasted.

Uncle Bobby had joined them, bringing a pumpkin and apple pie that he made from scratch. Sam remembered the salvage man telling him once about all the pies that his late wife would bake and these were her recipes. Dean had absolutely flipped his shit, eating two pieces of each before getting scolded by their father for being a complete pig.

Dad was drinking some, but not enough to blur his senses. He was quiet and contemplative at his end of the table. One minute smiling. Not quite enough to reach his eyes, but still smiling just the same. The next he would be staring at his sons with a painful wistfulness in his eyes.

The house was warm, despite the first few flurries of snow that were starting to swirl outside, and there was a ball game on TV in the background.

Sam looked from one family member to the other in turn. Taking in their faces when they didn't know he was looking. Happy, content, mischievous. A little sad.

Wondering what it was going to be like next year.

Worried that this was going to be the only Thanksgiving dinner he would ever have with the people he loved.

.


	8. December 2000

**Fratricide:** from the Latin words _frater_ "brother" and _cida_ "killer," or _cidum_ "a killing," both from _caedere_ "to kill, to cut down") is the act of killing one's brother.

It's a story _literally_ as old as time.

From the very beginning, starting with the biblical tale of Cain and Abel, brothers have found themselves locked in mortal combat, until one of them triumphs and commits one of the greatest atrocities known to man.

Killing your own brother.

From the mythical story of twins Romulus and Remus of Rome, to the Egyptian god Osiris, lord of the underworld, mutilated and murdered by Set. The literary King Hamlet, slayed by his brother Claudius in Shakespeare's tale. To Genghis Khan of early Mongolia, who killed his older brother Begter.

Even Hollywood has been known to spin the stories with characters such as Godfather Michael Corleone, ruthlessly ordering the cold blooded shooting of his brother Fredo.

History, real and imaginary, is full of examples of what happens when brothers simply cannot get along.

And in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Dean Winchester was rapidly feeling the urge to kill his little brother Sam with increasing vigor.

Of course, he wouldn't.

For someone who had spent the last seventeen years of his life giving everything he had in him to keep the little shit alive, killing him at this juncture would render all of his previously hard won efforts moot.

Although, if Sam didn't knock off the attitude _right the fuck now_ , Dean might not be able to be held liable for his actions.

And Sam might find himself surprised to realize that you didn't have to actually shed your brother's blood to mortally wound him

/

 _If Sam had any self preservation instincts at all, he would have thought twice about getting into that car in the first place. Proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his brother had been right all along._

 _/_

Early December was a stressful time at a competitive school like Holy Rosary. Semester finals were approaching with the barreling intensity of a bullet train, and class rankings were being clawed for with all of the aggression of a MMA cage fight.

There are no kindhearted Christian attitudes when it comes to GPAs at private prep schools. On the heels of a triumphant SAT test, where Sam had scored in the 99th percentile, he was going full bore with his plans to earn the best possible college education.

Sam was used to working hard at his studies. Life on the road isn't necessarily conducive to academic achievement unless one is truly dedicated. Especially when one had a big brother that spent the majority of his time either bouncing off the walls in some sort of caffeinated and chocolaty induced frenzy or mercilessly teasing you strictly out of sheer boredom.

The younger Winchester had to learn, from an early age, how to block out unwanted distractions if he was to have any hope at all of making the kinds of grades he knew he needed for higher education.

This was the first time that Sam had needed to multitask adding a girlfriend into the mix, however.

Having Kristin attend that Halloween party without him still stung on some unacknowledged subconscious level, although she had been relatively understanding about the demands on his schedule, and his restrictions at home. As perky and popular as she was, Kristin had educational goals too, and was not without the need to spend evenings at home keeping up with studies as well.

Or so she said.

She had assured him on several occasions that she didn't expect him to be available every day, and Sam had smiled his adorably shy smile and blushed, because he couldn't believe that he had found such a beautiful, amazing and accommodating girl.

He had a group of study buddies from the smart kids clique that rotated homes for evening sessions a couple of nights during the week. Dean wasn't terribly thrilled with the idea of his little brother being absent for several hours where he couldn't keep a close eye on Sam's surroundings without stalking him, but Sam needed some space, and big brother was going to just grit his teeth and bear it over the uncertainty and let him go.

The proper precautions were taken, because Dad wasn't going to allow it without them. Under the guise of dropping Sam off and having a friendly introductory meeting with the parents of Sam's study buddies, the houses had all been surreptitiously investigated and then vetted with the _Winchester Stamp of_ _Non_ _Supernatural_ _Activity_ _Approval._

Dean also made sure that their own house was as comfortable and welcoming as possible, in an attempt to maybe persuade the study group that their sessions might be more relaxed and fun held in a house monitored by a cool older brother instead of overbearing and nosy parents.

In truth, the other kids in the study group _did_ enjoy their sessions at the Winchester house, and it was only because Sam was chomping at the bit to get some distance from his brother that he couldn't see that he was the only one who would rather be someplace else.

Dean tried not to be offended by this obvious slight, and vigorously suppressed the little voice inside of him that was caustically taunting and suggesting that it was because Sam thought that his older brother wasn't s _mart enough_ to be comfortable around his fellow nerds.

It was already starting to snow when Sam's alarm went off that Thursday morning.

Predictably, Dean banged on his door, shouting out his customary and enthusiastic wake up call. Reluctantly pulling himself from the warm coziness of his bed, Sam trudged down the hall and used the bathroom, splashing water on his face to help clear the cobwebs from his head a little more.

Still dark outside, because five-thirty came _very_ early in the winter months, he stumbled back to his bedroom and pulled on his sweats and running shoes. He could hear motion downstairs in the living room, and wasn't surprised because Dean always managed to get up and moving first.

Dean could live on four hours of sleep.

Always had been able, from Sam's earliest memories. It was truly annoying sometimes, because his brother's restless energy could set Sam's teeth on edge on occasion. It was like Dean just wouldn't relax, only getting the barest amount of rest to keep his body from shutting down.

He could do absolute marathon drives when they were on the road. Always alert and never letting his guard down, even for a moment.

By the time Sam shuffled down the stairs, Dean was already limbering up for their run. Sam gave his older brother the barest of acknowledging grunts, pulling on his warmest hoodie before the two of them darted off into the dark, muffled and chilly pre-dawn morning.

It took a few minutes to get into a steady rhythm, but once Sam did, he relished the pump of adrenaline through his veins, urging his brain to wakefulness. Moving silently, trying not to slip on the snow slick streets, with only the occasional huff of breathy exertion pushed from their lungs, the brothers ran side by side without speaking.

They had a set route.

Exactly five miles long, as ordered, on relatively flat terrain. Dressed in layers to protect themselves against the briskness of the early morning air of a South Dakota winter, it didn't take long for them to start to sweat as they went through their paces. Sam had a longer stride, but what Dean lacked in length, he made up for in raw power, so they were pretty evenly matched.

Normally they didn't mind the workout. A lifetime spent conditioning alongside their sibling, competitive, yet also encouraging, they spent their mornings in a companionable quietness, never feeling the need to make small talk as they ran. Lately, however, Sam was feeling more and more irritation at what he perceived as his big brother hovering over his every move.

It was stifling on occasion, and though he knew that Dean did it only out of concern, the new family dynamic of living in separate spaces was growing on the younger brother.

With a semblance of independence and privacy that neither had ever known before, after years spent in the confining closeness of tiny motel rooms, the constant presence of his brother forever in his peripheral vision was starting to chafe.

Sam was used to their lives on the road. While they traveled from town to town, his big brother would often be away in the evenings. Either working or, more likely, hustling at pool or poker or, _even more likely_ , in the bed of a willing young lady, Sam had time alone to himself to read or study, or even watch some porn when he could get away with it.

Dean didn't go out much anymore.

His big brother's usual habits couldn't be sustained in a town where they had planted roots. You can't hustle in bars where the regulars knew you. You didn't find an endless stream of women to buy into your ever changing background story and aliases so that there were no strings to the one night stands.

Dean had a steady job in the day while Sam went to school. They weren't well off, but they were getting by easier than ever before, financially, so there was no urgency to go out and make risky moves to earn fast cash.

Sam knew his brother went to the salvage yard in the evenings when he was with his study group, or when he could slip away for a few hours with Kristin at the local coffee house where the popular kids clique hung out at night. Dean was always promptly on time to pick his little brother up and return him back to the house in accordance with Dad's proclamations, and once they were home, Dean didn't go back out.

Even though there was nothing in the rules preventing him from doing so.

It was as if his already maniacally protective older brother had dialed his watch dog duties all the way up to _eleven_ , reluctant to leave Sam's immediate proximity.

And it was making Sam crazy.

As they ran, Sam was suddenly overcome with a prickle of annoyance over the incessant closeness, the constant feeling of an inescapable fraternal shadow. A sense of suffocating claustrophobia engulfed him, and he pumped his arms harder and picked up the pace, leaving his brother slightly in the distance of the snowy street a mile from home.

At first, Dean surged himself closer, probably thinking that his brother was just trying to push them a little harder, but when Sam kicked himself even further forward, Dean dropped back and let him go on alone.

Sam felt a slight pang of guilt, but it passed as quickly as it had come, and he was already upstairs and heading towards the shower by the time he heard his brother enter the house behind him.

He took longer to get ready than normal, reluctant to make his way downstairs where he knew he would have to suffer the scrutiny of an overprotective guardian forever examining his every breath and movement under a microscope. Always keenly aware, with a fine tuned laser focus that could make Sam feel like the family lab rat. Sometimes the burning white hot intensity of his brother's observation of him just left him feeling blinded and scorched from the heat of Dean's sharp assessing eyes.

He knew he was being touchy and unreasonable.

Knew that Dean had been tasked with the responsibility for Sam's safety from a time when his brother was just a small child himself. That was another thing that Sam resented about their father.

John had his eldest son so brainwashed into putting Sam's needs and safety first, it was almost like their father didn't see that maybe Dean needed to be taken care of too.

The soothing hot water of the shower calmed him and lowered the emotions running through him to a more reasonable and manageable level. He dressed, grabbed his backpack and headed downstairs, determined to be less of an ass, because Dean hadn't really done anything this morning to deserve the relative cold shoulder Sam had given him.

Dean was in the kitchen making coffee, and the smell of the dark roast wafted through the house with an inviting aroma. Before grabbing a cup, Sam headed to the small alcove between the kitchen and the mudroom, as was his usual habit these days.

Right before Thanksgiving, Dean had brought home a second hand HP desktop for Sam to use for his schoolwork.

The manager of the electronics shop near Holy Rosary had come to Singer Salvage hoping for a cheap price for a rebuilt transmission. The guy's finances were bumpy and Dean offered a horse trade, scoring a computer for his little brother. A couple of days later, Dean reworked their budget and arranged for internet service as well.

Technically, it was the family computer, and Sam knew that he would be expected to step up his contribution in research for his father, but it was nice to finally have a computer at his disposal full time. Since then, he had gotten into the habit of checking his email first thing every morning, and reading things that _he_ found interesting, instead of just looking for cases and the lore to go with them.

Dean had also picked up a small desk and chair from the Salvation Army in town, and the pieces fit nicely in the little alcove.

Throwing his backpack on the floor near the door, Sam slipped into the chair and booted the computer up, throwing his brother a small smile of appreciation when he found a cup of coffee, already doctored to his tastes, placed on the desk next to him.

At least Dean didn't seem to be holding a grudge about their earlier run.

The first email to pop up was from Kristin, and for a moment, Sam felt another wave of irritation over the fact that he'd had to lie and tell her that he turned his phone off after ten for study purposes, so she often sent emails instead to talk about potential plans for the next day. Text messages were limited and expensive, and Dean discouraged excessive uses of them unless it was for hunting.

It took only a second for his day to turn to shit again.

Kristin had left a very enthusiastic message about a party being held at Smith Harris' house that evening.

Another football player, and the best friend of Trenton, Kristin's reluctant ex, Smith was one of the few troublemakers at Sam's school. His parents were wealthy. They traveled a lot and left Smith home to his own devices, which usually included regular bouts of underage drinking and recreational drug use.

They contributed a lot of money to the campaigns of the local politicians and, in return, their son was generally left alone by local law enforcement.

Tonight was Smith's birthday, and with parents too consumed with their own lives to be bothered to spend it with their son, he was throwing a huge bash for himself, and everyone was invited to come.

Sam's sympathies for Smith's lack of parental involvement were practically non-existent at the moment, as he felt a flash of jealousy for the freedom that his classmate was given by his family, while Sam was practically held hostage by his own.

Kristin insisted that Sam needed to make an appearance this time, regardless of what his study schedule looked like. For the first time, she officially referred to him as her _boyfriend_ , the word making him smile with all the dimples, and she was very clear that he was expected to escort her.

The problem was, Dean would never agree.

The Harris house was on his big brother's _no-fly_ list.

All that time getting cozy with the parents of Sam's teammates had given Dean an inside track on who the problem children were. Which of course, Sam now realized, had been the point, and that rankled him even more. The school was small enough that just about everyone knew everybody else, so naturally his overbearing asshat of a brother would have ferreted out the dirty info by any means necessary.

He shut the computer down and sidled over to the kitchen table. Already set out was the container of granola that he had developed a recent taste for, along with a banana, a container of milk and a glass of juice. Instead of being appreciative of his brother's thoughtfulness, the gesture just ramped up his irritation another notch as he unfairly compared Dean's pushy actions to their father's overbearing manner.

"Why do you always have to assume you know what I want for breakfast?"

Sam's blunt statement forced Dean to glance up from his own plate, a look of surprise and confusion on his face.

"What?"

"Maybe I was planning on having something else," Sam bit back, already removing the offending items from the table. "Maybe I wanted yogurt today."

Dean gave him a questioning glare and cocked an eyebrow.

"Okaaay. Have some damn yogurt."

 _Seriously? Where did that come from?_

His brother's acquiescence did nothing to quell the frustration swirling on the tip of Sam's tongue.

"That's not the point, Dean," he continued, not placated. "You just _assume_. You never ask my opinion."

Years of dealing with his little brother's moods had made Dean an expert on knowing exactly when Sam was lashing out about something totally unrelated to whatever childish fight he was trying to pick.

"Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning, Sammy?"

"It's _Sam_."

Dean rolled his eyes and held his hands up in surrender. Already a little miffed about his brother's unscheduled hundred meter dash earlier, and now not willing to get into an argument either on appropriate breakfast selections or nicknames.

"Fine, _Sam_. Eat what you want. Yogurt, cereal, one of your textbooks. I don't really care, but decide, already. We're leaving in ten minutes."

He got up from his own seat and rinsed off his plate before pouring another cup. When he turned around, Sam was still seething in his chair, making no move to get into gear.

Kid just couldn't make this easy.

" _What_? Seriously. What's got your panties in a bunch?"

"Nothing," Sam spat out, jumping up from his chair with such force it was almost knocked down behind him. He grabbed his backpack and stomped to the front door, throwing it open with unnecessary force and slamming it behind him.

Dean dumped his recently poured cup into the sink and shut the machine off. It wasn't even eight a.m. yet and he already had a killer headache. His little brother had been an absolute pain in the ass for the past few days, and while he had tried to be patient about it, it was really beginning to grate on his nerves.

By the time he had grabbed his coat, secured the house and made it to the car, Sam was sitting in the passenger seat looking ready to spit nails.

Dean made the executive decision to work him extra hard during their sparring tonight because clearly the kid needed to let off some steam.

The snow had continued during the morning, and the roads were slippery. The Impala was as steady as they came, and Dean handled her like a gentle lover as they sledded through the streets on the way to Sam's school. Next to him, Sam sat quietly, head leaning against the window, lost in thought.

At least he wasn't arguing.

Dean was feeling grateful for small mercies right about now. Sooner or later the kid would open up to him about whatever was going on in that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of his. His little brother was a chronic brooder.

Been there and done that. Wrote the book and got the T-shirt.

'Kristin called me her boyfriend."

The quiet statement startled Dean out of his thoughts, and he looked over briefly to see his little brother staring plaintively at him. For a moment, Dean wondered if Sam was upset by that, because Dean would have felt corralled by a girl that labeled him.

But then again, Sam was definitely a more relationship oriented kind of guy. He decided to go for congratulatory.

"Sammy, you sly dog! Good for you, kiddo."

He was rewarded with one of his little brother's shy grins and knew that he had been right that Sam was happy about his official relationship status.

"You know," Dean continued, wanting to keep the light mood going, "Dad isn't expecting us this weekend. Why don't you take her someplace special Saturday? I'll let you have the car for a night."

Sam smiled even wider and Dean smirked back, happy that the kid was climbing out of the doldrums he had been mired in all morning.

He probably should have known that it was too good to be true.

"Actually, she wants me to take her to a party." _Pause_ "Tonight."

Dean pursed his lips and cast a side eyed glance at his now squirming little brother. He thought about it for a few seconds and decided not to dismiss it out of hand. Sam knew the rules. Would probably not ask for permission to do something that would break them.

Of course he was completely wrong.

"There's a birthday party, and everyone is going."

Dean cocked an eyebrow and looked pointedly at his little brother, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sam seemed to take a deep breath and glanced casually out the window.

"It's at Smith Harris' house."

" _ **No**_."

Sam seemed startled by the speed and vehemence of the answer, but he wasn't cowed enough to back down. They could talk about this like two reasonable people.

"Dean, c'mon, man. It will be fine. You know most of the people going."

"And you're not going to be one of them."

Now frustration was setting in, and Sam felt the renewed vigor of his earlier testiness come slamming back at a roaring speed.

"I can handle myself against vengeful spirits, werewolves and ghouls. I think I can manage to hold my own against a few high school students."

Dean scowled and stared at his brother while he waited at a red street light, wondering when it was that Sam's common sense left him to go on vacation to the Bahamas.

"What part of _no_ didn't you get, little brother? That kid is nothing but trouble."

"So what?" Sam fumed. "What makes you think that I can't watch out for myself and make the right choices to stay safe?"

The light turned green and Dean pushed the car forward, correcting her gently when the rear tires slid slightly to the right.

"The choices have already been made, Sam. _By Dad_. He was very clear that you don't hang out with kids that use drugs."

Sam shook his head derisively, building up the steam to tell his brother, in no uncertain terms, what he felt about Dad's decision making process most of the time.

"Yeah, 'cause Dad is such a paragon of virtue," he huffed. "Dude, he's had us breaking laws since puberty."

"Well, his _word_ is still law in _our_ house," Dean stated with finality, tired of beating that particular poor dead horse. "So you are just going have to deal with that."

Over in the passenger seat, Dean could tell that his little brother was seething, and he could understand why, from a certain point of view. Sam's reins were pretty tight, and he usually endured them without too much complaint.

But reason and common sense sometimes flew directly out the window when a pretty girl entered the picture. He liked Kristin well enough, but she was definitely one of those beautiful girls that were accustomed to getting their way.

He decided for distraction, because he didn't really want to fight with his brother all day.

"Besides, don't you have your study group over at Michael's house tonight?"

Sam was looking away from him, head leaning again against the side window. The fight seemed to have gone directly out of his sails, and while Dean didn't like to see the kid so upset, he wasn't backing down on this one.

"Yeah."

The rest of the trip was silent, and by the time Dean pulled up to the drop off curb, Sam's face was pinched in a seriously pissed off scowl. Hoping to diffuse his brother, he went for conciliatory.

"She'll understand, Sam. If she really cares about you."

"Just shut up, Dean," Sam muttered angrily, getting out and turning to close the car door.

The uncalled for attack got Dean's back up, because he didn't take crap like that from anyone except their father, and he certainly wasn't going to take it from his snot nosed, pain in the ass brother.

"I'll be here at five sharp. I suggest you pull that stick out of your ass before then, or we're going to have a problem."

Sam's eyes flared, and for a second he gave serious thought to slamming the door.

 _H_ _ard_.

He only resisted because he knew Dean wouldn't hesitate to get out and kick his ass in front of the other students, not caring that it would utterly embarrass Sam.

He closed it gently and stalked off to the front door, leaving his brother behind to gape at him and wonder what the fuck just happened.

/

The young hunter smiled fondly as he shut the hood of his Jeep. It had only taken an hour to fix this time. Apparently his mother was getting less creative with her machinations as she got older. It was a game they played as the years passed. She vandalized his car in an attempt to keep him home, and he fixed it back up and pretended to blame it on the normal wear and tear of an aging and beloved vehicle.

He had already disappointed her in so many ways, he was okay with letting her have her hissy fits about his frequent trips away from their home.

Striding back into the house, brushing snow from his coat carefully so he didn't get grease on it, he headed towards his office. His go-bag was lying on his desk, always packed and easily accessible. He rummaged around for a minute and grabbed a few more innocuous looking weapons. Since he was going to have to cross the border into the US today, the fewer lethal things he needed to hide in the car, the better.

You never know when border control might get curious.

He paused for a minute, looking over at his cork board, and wondered if he should bring along one of his oldest possessions. Considering what he was about to walk into, he probably was going to need all the evidence he could get. The man he was going to be meeting had a larger than life reputation in their world, and he wasn't someone who was known to take things on faith.

Mind made up, he sorted through the various layers of newspaper articles and photos that had built up over the years until he finally found the slightly fading Polaroid at the very back of the pile. He hadn't looked at it in years, although the subject of the photo was ever present on his mind. Every time he went on the hunt, that face flashed in front of his eyes and only increased his determination that the path he had chosen was righteous.

He couldn't part with it completely.

Regardless of what he was getting ready to do. He flipped on his computer and scanner, and when they were warmed up and ready, he put the photo on the scanning bed and saved a digital copy. He would take the time to print out a duplicate for himself later.

Packing the photo into his bag, he switched off the lights to his office and headed out to the entryway of the house, where his mother was nervously pacing, anticipating his departure. He smiled sweetly at her, hating to cause her distress, but knowing that what he had chosen to do with his life made a real difference. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, letting her hug him tightly for a minute.

It wasn't easy on her.

She had already lost his father, and knowing that every goodbye with her only child might be the last one had aged her prematurely. He wished it could have been different. That he could have obliged her by becoming an astronaut, or a Mountie or a hundred other things that would have made her proud and kept the anxiety from lining her face.

But he was doing this _for_ her.

Her and every other mother that might be in danger of losing a husband or a child to something vile and vicious. There just were not enough hunters in this world. It took a certain kind of person. A certain content of character. You needed to be willing to sacrifice everything, every day, for strangers. Knowing that this life only ended one way, and making your peace with that.

Hopefully, by the end of his time, whenever that was, he could leave knowing that he made the world a better place than it would have been without him. It was because of someone like him that he was still here at all, and when a life altering event like happens, you needed to heed the call and pay it forward.

It was still snowing lightly. The forecast had predicted icy road conditions for almost the entirety of his eight hour journey. But he had faith in his Jeep. It was a trusty car when it wasn't around for his mother to tinker with, and he needed to make this trip. There was someone he needed to pay back, and hopefully what he was doing today would be a start.

/

Contrary to Dean's words this morning, Kristin had not, in fact, been even remotely understanding when Sam told her that he wouldn't be able to take her to Smith's party.

As the day progressed, she was determined to make him change his mind, and by the time he went to his locker to collect everything he would need to take home for the night, his ears were bleeding from her increasingly upset insistence.

Even the offer to take her out on Saturday, anywhere she wanted to go for evening, and Sam more than willing to break into his cash reserves to pay for something extra special, had not smoothed things over. When she refused his goodbye kiss and turned on her heel and stomped away from him, her gaggle of girlfriends shooting him hostile glares, he banged his head against the locker and cursed his family of wardens.

Dean would have been able to go, he knew without a doubt.

Mostly because Dad never really asked where his oldest son spent his evenings away when their father was actually with them. John gave Dean his first fake ID when he was sixteen, allowing him to hustle in places a hell of a lot scarier than the well appointed Greek Revival of the Harris family.

Sam had seen his brother come home bloody and bruised after getting jumped by marks that didn't have a sense of humor about losing their money.

Right about now, Sam was choking on the double standards being shoved down his throat.

If that wasn't more proof that his father thought less of his capabilities than he thought of Dean's, then Sam didn't know what would be. No matter how hard Sam trained, or how many hours he spent tracking down translations and archaic texts to help with hunts, he realized that he would never be the equal of his older brother in their father's eyes.

On one hand, he supposed he should be happy about that fact. If Dad wasn't counting on him to be as much of an asset to the family business, then he probably wouldn't even care that Sam was going to leave and go to college.

Dean was already waiting for him at the curb, and it took everything Sam had in him to climb in the car and keep his mouth closed. Unable to trust himself to be civil with his pig headed older brother, he opted for silence, and after a few attempts by Dean to start a casual conversation, eventually he just left Sam alone.

The hostile undercurrent of Sam's temper didn't improve during their daily sparring session. While Dean had already planned on pushing his little brother into expending some of his pent up frustration in a productive and educational manner, he soon realized that Sam wasn't interested in pulling his punches today. Only the sharper and more instinctual reflexes of the older brother prevented him from getting a broken nose on more than one occasion.

Dad had thrown a mat down in the basement in an empty area off to the side from where his bed and work station sat. South Dakota had too much cold weather to allow for outdoor PT in the winter months. The boys fought and grappled and tumbled on the mat for almost thirty minutes, building up heavy pools of sweat and pushing oxygen deprived aching muscles.

Sam was like a raging bull, but even his will and own impressive skills were not enough to get the drop on his older brother.

After the third time Dean almost found himself eating a fist sandwich, he decided he'd had enough. He pinned Sam to the mat, and finally let his full strength take over. Sam roared and bucked like a rampaging elephant, but his struggles were unproductive. He might be gaining inches on Dean, but Dean was still the big brother in their house and he was _just_ _done_ with the bullshit attitude that had been thrown at him since before the sun rose.

With both of Sam's arms stretched taut behind his back, held in place by one of Dean's hands and a knee, and Dean's other hand pushing the side of Sam's face painfully into the mat, the younger boy finally grunted his concession and tapped out.

Dean was trying. God knows he _was_. Right now Sam was lucky that his big brother loved him, because what Dean really wanted was to punch Sam in the face until he got over himself and dealt with disappointment.

After Sam's less than sportsman like conduct in the basement, he even let the kid order his favorite pizza for dinner in lieu of eating whatever resulted from his big brother's latest foray in the kitchen. Not that Dean's cooking was terrible. He was getting better every day, but there was definitely a learning curve still going on with their stove at night.

Sam's piss poor attitude didn't actually warrant the right to be allowed out at all, quite frankly and, for a split second, his brother considered grounding his ass and making him stay home for the night until he accepted that being a little bitch didn't get you what you want in life.

Then his blood pressure lowered, giving a chance for his annoyance to ebb away and realize that Sam's irritation over not getting to indulge in some normal teenage mischief was, in some small way, an understandable reaction.

He dropped Sam off at his friend Michael's house, with a reminder that he would return for him at nine, and tried not to be offended when the kid didn't even bother to say goodbye.

/

Harvelle's Roadhouse was just a small beat up little dive. It sat somewhere in the neighborhood of central Bumfuck, Nebraska, far away from the main streets and prying eyes of the world of civilians. You wouldn't even give it a second glance if you were to stumble across it by accident. The weather beaten wood siding and partially boarded up windows screamed G _o Away_ to the casual onlooker.

To the hunting community, it was neutral ground.

A place for exchanging information with others in The Life, without fearing for your own. Run by Ellen Harvelle, widow of the man who built it, there were strict rules in place about what kind of behavior was allowed within the walls. Ellen was tough, and handy with a pistol, and there were many fearless men and women who would rather tangle with a pack of chupacabra than face down the barrel of Mrs. Harvelle's gun.

Inside was significantly more welcoming than the exterior. The hardwood floor was scuffed beyond repair by numerous brawls, when eager beaver novice hunters took it upon themselves to start fights they couldn't finish, but it was still good quality. There was a large wrap around bar with comfortably worn leather stools, and clean taps that poured generous pints of PBR.

Various tables were spread around the main room, with a pool table off to the side. You could hustle in the Roadhouse, if you were of a mind, but if you were expecting to profit from your efforts, you were going to be disappointed. Anyone you chanced to challenge was guaranteed to be better than you. Mostly the games were just for practice. A way for the hunters to hone their skills in fleecing the marks they met during their travels.

You also had to be careful of the proprietress' teenage daughter Jo, who would cheerfully relieve you of your cash if you were foolish enough to challenge her in cards or the aging video games in the corner.

When the young hunter enters, the atmosphere is lively. It's the evening, and the roads are becoming impassable. No one is in any hurry to leave, and the beer is flowing freely. He sits himself at a corner table, back to the wall out of habit, and scans his surroundings.

These hunters are not his usual comrades in arms. Since he generally keeps himself north of the lower forty-eight, he has his own trusted circle of contacts and sources. Hunters tended to keep to their own territories if they could, although they would travel thousands of miles for a case if the situation required it. One can never be too careful in unfamiliar territory.

Especially with this group.

When the front door opens, about ten minutes after his own arrival, it's as if the entire joint freezes up. The lull in conversation is so unnaturally sudden that it startles him, and he finds himself tensing defensively even as he darts his eyes over to the entry to see what has them so on edge.

The man walking in is tall, broad in the shoulders, but lean. The young hunger doubts there is an ounce of fat on him. His face is unreadable, but his dark eyes track every single movement in the entire place. He says nothing. Makes no aggressive movements, but there is a foreboding sense of menace surrounding him. The vibes he is giving off are warning anyone with half a brain cell to steer far clear of his path.

The young hunter doesn't know if it's fear, respect or disdain, but the other bar patrons keep their mouths closed and avert their eyes as the newcomer saunters over to the bar. The entire crowd seems decidedly uncomfortable, and a few even pack up and take off as discretely as they can, weather be damned.

The tall man heads straight for Ellen and, for the briefest of seconds, his face drops its mask of blatant intimidation and softens. They don't speak, but she reaches out and gently presses her hand to the top of the one he has placed on the bar. A few heartbeats pass, and then she is jutting her chin in the direction of the young hunter himself. He finds that he is not surprised that his presence here this evening has been broadcast to the Roadhouse's inner circle.

He's not without his own reputation.

The tall man reaches the young hunters table, stern and projecting a sense of power and strength that exceeds his already impressive form. They spend a minute sizing each other up. These are two men known to face the demon world head on and neither is a shrinking violet. Neither of them is willing to be the first that blinks either, because to do so would be a sign of weakness. Eventually, they come to an unspoken mutual respect. The older man takes a seat across the table and leans back, nodding his head in acknowledgment and unnecessarily introduces himself.

"John Winchester."

The young hunter takes the offered olive branch and goes one step further, extending his hand in greeting.

"Asa Fox."

/

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

When Sam arrives at Michael's house, he joins Michael and two other study buddies in the well appointed family room where books are already spread out in every direction on the large wooden table off to the side. Normally, there are eight of them that routinely gather together to share notes and quiz one another in various subjects. Sam knows, without asking, that the other four are at the party where he himself is longing to be.

Less than twenty minutes into their study session, it is clear that Sam's mind is elsewhere, and his less than helpful participation is becoming a distraction to the others. Realizing that they will not be getting any productive work done this evening, Michael finally suggests that they just give up even trying and head to the party that they all secretly want to attend.

Sam knows he shouldn't. Knows that he has rules to obey, and trust that he should not abuse.

While his father is heavy handed and firm, his brother goes out of his way to fight for Sam to have what he wants when it's truly important. Dean doesn't demand much out of Sam for everything his big brother does for him. All he asks is for Sam to follow the rules and keep out of trouble.

If Dean was the least bit comfortable with Sam being at the Harris home, he would have gone to the mat with their dad to get permission for tonight.

That knowledge alone should stop Sam cold.

But he's been in a heightened state of agitation for a few weeks now, for no real reason other than he has a girlfriend for the first time, and she makes demands on him that he's never had to accommodate before. He _wants_ to accommodate her. Enjoys having her on his arm as they walk through the halls, and drink ridiculously expensive coffees that make them feel sophisticated and mature while hanging out with the popular kids.

Sam's not shallow, but he's also never been popular before either, and it's not a feeling that he is willing to give up just yet by disappointing her.

Michael's parents are out for the evening. They will never even know that the kids are not at their house where they are supposed to be, and Sam has a discomforting thought about how that little fact would make his brother go ape shit crazy if he knew. Michael has his own car, and before Sam knows it, they are all piling in and heading downtown. Michael assures him that they will only stay for an hour or so, and that Sam will be back at the house in plenty of time for Dean to pick him up.

 _Easy._

The streets are icy, so Michael drives slow and carefully, because he's a responsible kid and a conscientious driver. It takes longer than expected to get to the house, and they can hear the music from two blocks away emanating from it. They have to park a good distance away, because it really does seem that the entire school has decided to swing by.

The interior is utter chaos. It's wall to wall bodies, and there is a lot of intimately close contact as Sam and company attempt to squeeze their way through. He scans each room as they push along, looking for Kristin, but so far doesn't see her anywhere. One of his soccer teammates tries to push a plastic cup of beer in his hand and he politely refuses. All he needs is for Dean to smell alcohol on his breath. The jig would be up pretty quick.

Michael settles in one of the less crowded sitting rooms, along with Taylor and Nathalie, the other two that showed to study group. They have joined some of the other regular members that are already seated, and Taylor makes a space for Sam on the couch, but he smiles and indicates that he is going to keep searching for Kristin farther in.

There is a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke, mixed with the sweet tang of marijuana permeating the air of the house. Sam cringes, realizing that this does not bode well for his ability to keep his brother from detecting them on his clothes. While he would never touch a joint, Dean has once, and has been subjected to the second hand smoke of it on more than one occasion. There's not much chance he won't recognize that particular odor.

It's at that point that he knows he's already busted. There go his Saturday plans with Kristin.

There's a full bar set up in the rec room, and clearly Smith has spared no expense. There are shelves filled with top brands of spirits, and no less than three tapped kegs with huge stacks of plastic cups lined up at the sides. The windows are vibrating with the heavy bass being pumped out of the crystal clear sound system, and the room is filled with a mob of scantily clad teenagers dancing and rubbing against each other in lusty gyrations.

Pushing aside the worrisome knowledge that his brother's wrath is now inescapable, Sam decides that if he's in for a penny, he's in for a pound, and when the next person pumps a cup of beer from the keg and passes it over, he takes it and downs half, already sweating from the heat generated from the sheer number of bodies crowded into the house and a furnace that is apparently working on full bore to ward off the winter chill.

He's still wandering from room to room when his head starts to buzz. Not from the beer, he knows, because occasionally Dean, and even sometimes their dad, will let him have a couple after a successful hunt. Sam can handle his beer just fine. The marijuana smoke is a new entity, and it's not treating him kindly. He doesn't think he's getting high exactly, although he has one killer of a headache building.

He's back in the part of the house where the crowd is thickest and, with his eyes going glassy, starts feeling claustrophobic. He pushes at a door to his side, mistaking it for the one to the rec room in an effort to get back to his friends. When it falls open, he realizes that he has stumbled across a darkened bedroom that is clearly already in use by some enthusiastic attendees from the sounds he hears coming from the bed.

Embarrassed, he begins to mutter an apology and turns to let himself back out, and it's then that he sees who the bed's occupants are.

Kristin is the first to recognize him, and while Sam is standing in shock in the doorway, she struggles to pull the sheets up to cover her bare breasts. Her face is red and she looks like she is about to burst into tears. Next to her, Trenton sits up, unashamed of his own nudity, more than happy to lay there with a sheen of sweat glistening off of his bulging muscles. There's a cruel smirk on his face and his eyes dare Sam to do or say something about what he's just stumbled across.

For a second, Sam allows himself to feel the pain of hurt and betrayal, before schooling his features to the scary neutral mask that he has inherited from his father. With a malicious sneer, he moves to close the door, throwing the couple one last parting shot.

"Don't let me interrupt."

He shuts the door behind him and heads back to the bar.

If he stops and thinks for a second, he will have to deal with the fact that his ego is crushed and his heart is potentially breaking. Not because he's necessarily in love with Kristin, but because for years he has been in love with the _idea_ of her. Those lonely high school years before his time at Holy Rosary, when all he wanted was to be a normal kid, with a pretty girlfriend and comfortable place in the social hierarchy.

That's pretty much gone right now, and he's one part distressed and four parts enraged. No longer thinking clearly, he goes to the bar and snags two bottles of Jack. He's not stopped. There is no one behind the bar to tend it and the booze is veritably a free-for-all.

Michael and the girls stare at the craziness in his eyes when he reaches them again. He's already swigging directly from the neck of one of the bottles. He's had Jack before. His own father has given it to him to dull the pain of injuries.

And he is definitely in pain right now. Who says the pain has to be physical to earn him the right to some liquor? Dad has no trouble using an alcoholic crutch to deal with his hurt, after all.

Michael stands up and approaches him, as one would an injured lion that you don't want to spook.

"Sam, are you okay, man?"

"Fan- _fucking_ -tastic," Sam replies cheerfully, as he takes another pull. He offers the bottle to Michael, but it's refused.

"Did you find Kristin?"

Michael is trying to ferret out the reason why Sam has gone on a quick bender, and realizes his mistake as soon as a flash of hurt flickers in Sam's eyes. It's gone an instant later, and the cruel hardness returns, changing Sam into someone that Michael doesn't know, and it's more than a little scary.

Sam smiles, but it's a cold smile, and Michael feels an involuntary shudder pass through him.

"Oh, yeah," he says, almost conversationally. "She's in one of the bedrooms fucking Trenton. Drink?"

That news has Michael blinking fast, and he realizes that he needs to get his friend away from this place. He refuses the offer of the Jack and quietly suggests that they just leave. Taylor and Nathalie have also been drinking, against his advice, and he would really prefer that they all just go home before something else bad happens.

When Michael gently pries the unopened bottle from Sam's hand, he hears Sam pull in a stuttering breath, as if he is close to breaking into tears. Sam doesn't fight him when Michael collects their coats and begins to steer Sam and the girls out to the car.

The snow is falling heavier at this point, and it's a precarious walk down the sidewalk. Their footsteps are muffled by the flakes already covering the ground, and the only sound is the occasional swallow that Sam takes from the bottle he still has. Michael doesn't fight him for that one, and is almost semi-relieved when the girls begin to share it. Taking small sips and dumping some out when Sam isn't looking.

It takes some time, but eventually they make it to the car and pile in. Sam folds himself into the back with Nathalie, while Taylor takes the front passenger seat. Michael asks him to cap the bottle, and Sam still has the decency to do as his friend asks.

Sam's head is spinning and he's desperately fighting back tears of frustration and hurt, while a knot of anger and betrayal begin to burn in the pit of his stomach. He ignores the others in the car, not paying any attention to the worried glances Michael keeps sneaking at him in the rear view mirror.

He barely even realizes what is happening when the car hits a patch of black ice and careens into a pole.

/

Dean has a smile on his face a mile wide as he puts the finishing touches on Sammy's Camaro. With any luck, she will be done tonight, although he's not in any hurry to rush it. He's taken his time with this one, wanting nothing but the best for his kid brother.

Sam has no idea how many times their father has swung by during the last month to help Dean rebuild her. John has even stayed with Bobby a few nights, because they know Sam will be suspicious to have Dad at home with that kind of frequency without a plausible explanation. Dean has loved every minute of the time spent with his Dad, shoulder to shoulder as they work.

Even with John's habitual sharp criticisms and rebukes over less than stellar technique it doesn't dampen the joy Dean finds from learning at his father's side.

They have poured their hearts and souls into creating something beautiful for their youngest, and Dean is almost sorry now that he agreed with his father to wait until Christmas to hand the keys over to Sam.

Maybe with something fun in his life right now, little brother can stop being such an _asshole_.

Dean's no stranger to Sam's surly attitude and constantly fluctuating moods. It's Dad all over again.

Live and in technicolor in his lookalike son.

Of course, Dean didn't experience John as a teenager, but he suspects that his father was just as mercurial and short tempered as his little brother has been lately. Fortunately, Dean is all too well versed in handling a moody dark haired Winchester, and he knows that he will be employing some tried and true methods of keeping Sam's emotional turbulence in a manageable range.

The interior of the garage is warm from the three space heaters that Bobby has placed strategically around the car. Dean needs dry heat for the work he's doing tonight, but he's starting to sweat a little. He straightens from where he has been hunched at the rear bumper and stretches, pulling a knot from the tight muscles in his back after their exceptionally aggressive workout earlier.

He looks out one of the garage windows and sees the snowy conditions and gives thought to the brilliance of letting Sam have a car right in the middle of winter. The kid can drive, but neither Dad nor Dean have ever really let him take the wheel in bad weather. Dean sees a few weeks of practice driving, with himself firmly in the passenger seat to navigate and instruct, in Sam's near future.

He works for a while longer, until it's time to leave to pick Sam up from his friend's house. With the snowy roads in mind, he decides to give himself a head start. He doesn't mind sitting outside and waiting for a while until the kid is ready to come home. Lord knows, the less he has to talk with his bitchy brother tonight, the better.

Hopefully Sam will wake up on the right side of the bed tomorrow morning.

Gliding the car smoothly through light traffic, he arrives at Michael's house a few minutes early. He shuts the car off and settles in to wait. The interior is still warm and he's comfortable. If it begins to cool off, he could always turn her back on, but Dean's not delicate like that. He can take a little chill for a while.

He throws AC/DC in the cassette slot and turns the key to auxiliary. The strains of _Highway to Hell_ filter through the speakers and he leans back in his seat, closing his eyes and relaxing. It's been a really long day and he's tired. All he wants is to get Sammy home, have a beer and a hot shower, and hit the rack.

Comfortable, he drifts, falling into a light sleep without realizing it. It's a dreamless REM cycle, and when something finally breaches his unconsciousness and he surfaces, it takes a second to get his bearings. The car is far colder than it should be after just a brief time sitting, and in the tape deck the sound of side B's _Love Hungry Man_ is just finishing up. With a start he realizes how much time has passed, and that Sammy has not woken him with the sound of the passenger door opening.

He blinks rapidly, reflexive and offensive instincts kicking, until he hears the familiar opening bars of _Smoke on the Water_ vibrating in his coat pocket. He digs for his phone and snaps it open, relieved when the caller ID shows Sammy's name. He pushes the talk button, ready to snap at his little brother for being so late.

"Sammy, where the hell are you, man? I want to get home."

" _Dean_. I'm in trouble."

/

Sam's mind is black for a while. The first conscious sensation he feels is a dull, thudding pain above his right eye. As he struggles for coherent thought, a warm sluggish trickle of liquid snakes its way into the corner of his eye and he lifts his hand to push it out of his vision.

It takes a few seconds to realize where he is, and it's only because he can hear Taylor crying softly in the seat in front of him that he finally understands that they have been involved in an accident. His father's training kicks in without hesitation, and he immediately starts an assessment of his own physical condition so that he can assist the others.

Other than an ache in his head, which he is fairly sure is a mild concussion, and beginnings of the bruises he can feel from the impact, he seems to be unhurt. Next to him, Nathalie is still unconscious, her face hanging down to her chest. Sam can see a smear of blood on the window next to her. Michael is hunched over the steering wheel's airbag, but he is groaning softly and Sam feels a wave of relief that his friend is still breathing.

His mind is still muddled from the Jack and the marijuana contact high, but response to trauma is ingrained into his very DNA after years in the Winchester Army. He looks around for landmarks, finds a familiar intersection and grabs his phone. He dials 911, and proceeds to give a very calm explanation of what has happened and what their approximate location is before hanging up. The dispatcher had wanted to keep him on the line, but Sam knows he needs the freedom to triage his friends' injuries, and he can't do that with a phone in one hand.

Releasing himself from his own seat belt, he checks Nathalie for a pulse and finds one strong and steady. There is a sticky clump of blood clotting on the left side of her temple, but otherwise she seems unharmed. He pulls the clean handkerchief that Dean insists he always carry on him, and uses it to staunch the flow of blood.

Needing to see to the others, Sam gets out of the car and runs around to the front, doing what he can to assist Michael first, and then runs around to the other side to help Taylor. In the distance, he can hear the wail of sirens, and he takes a moment to wipe away another stream off blood from his own face that hasn't slowed down.

Help is on the way, and the adrenaline spike that has kept Sam on his feet and moving suddenly plummets. He sways a little and barely manages to drop back into his own seat before the ambulance and police cruiser come screeching to a halt next to them.

/

The minute Sam saw his brother stride into the emergency room, he felt a strange and immediate mixture of relief and fear.

Relief that his big brother would help him out of whatever mess he had gotten himself into, and fear that once he did, Dean might just decide that it was more fun to kill him himself. His brother makes his way over to him quickly, worry oozing out of every pore as he gives Sam a thorough once over to make sure that the kid was in one piece.

"Are you okay, Sammy?"

Dean's voice was calm, controlled. Low volume that belied his panic over his little brother being injured. He reaches out and cups Sam's face in his hands, tilting his little brother's head slightly so he can examine the wound on his forehead. It's nothing serious.

Sam nods jerkily, unable to find his voice, his state of anxiety still running high over the uncertainty of what was going to happen to him. The surge of adrenaline that has been pumping hard through his veins since the car's impact has returned over the uncertainty of exactly how much trouble he is in.

Dean stared at him for a moment, as if trying to reassure himself that Sam's non-verbal response was not an indication of a more serious problem than the one at hand. He whips out his own penlight, checking Sam's pupils, and comforts himself that they show no indication of a concussion. While Sam has a bandage above his eye, the injury seems superficial.

He reached out to give the trembling teen a quick comforting pat on the shoulder before straightening back up and heading over to where Taylor's father is gathered with the two responding police officers.

If Sam was feeling comforted by his brother's presence, it's short lived. During the conversation with the officers, Dean's face has gone strangely red, a lot like their father's did when he was furious. Sam doesn't need to hear the conversation to know what his brother was being told.

Taylor's father was the first to arrive at the ER, since his daughter was coherent enough to call him from the ambulance. A locally well known attorney, he took immediate control of the situation, once he was assured that his daughter was okay. At the hospital, he is given the run down by the responding officers, and it immediately kicks his personal and professional interest into high gear.

All the kids are fine. Banged up and bruised, but fine. Nathalie has a mild concussion, and will need overnight observation, but the rest are okay to go home. It's a no-fault accident, given the road conditions and no evidence that Michael was speeding.

The smell of whiskey in the car, and the half empty bottle rolling around in the foot well of the rear seat is enough cause to give all four kids a breathalyzer. The driver is the only one who hasn't been drinking, luckily for him. All the others blow levels over the legal limit for adults which, clearly, they are not.

Technically, all three passengers are under arrest for underage drinking. Taylor's father manages to convince the officers to release them into the custody of their parents. His friend is the D.A., and there is a conference call placed right at the nurses station to keep the whole thing as casual and friendly as possible.

Dean darts quickly back to the car for a second and retrieves a copy of the guardianship papers he keeps in the glove box for emergency purposes. He's thankful at that moment for his father's drilled in insistence of always being prepared.

When he rejoins the conversation, Taylor's father informs him that he has come to a gentleman's agreement with the DA. If the kids and their parents appear in court next week and pay a fine, the misdemeanor underage drinking charge will be dropped to a citation offense of disorderly conduct. One that will go away in ninety days.

An incredibly fair offer under the circumstances, and only under consideration because of the lack of injuries and property damage.

Sam sat fidgeting in his seat, watching his brother grow increasingly more red in the face until Dean turned towards him and shot him such a heated glare that Sam was sure they would not need accelerant for their next salt and burn. His brother's rage would be more than enough fuel to get the job done.

For his part, Dean was having trouble believing what he was hearing. Sam was just not the kind of kid that got himself into trouble like this. He had always been the goody-good little bookworm that stayed at home and studied, keeping his head down and not causing waves, unless it was to mouth off to their father.

For some reason, his little brother had always had a talent for __that__. But otherwise, Sam never behaved this way, and Dean was not thrilled with the new personality.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of the kid finding a carelessly rebellious streak this late in the game of his teen years. With a small pang of discomfort in his stomach, he had to wonder if it was because their father wasn't around as much to keep him in check.

Sure, Sam could go thirteen rounds in vocal battles with John before crossing the line that ended up getting his ass handed to him, but he was never actually foolish enough to set out and cause trouble that would get them noticed. Sam was certainly smart enough to know just how much wrath would be rained down upon him if he had.

Glancing over at the kid, Dean could see that Sam was practically to the point of hyperventilation. Sighing deeply in frustration, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. There would be plenty of time to rip Sammy a new one on the way home.

His kid brother is okay. He'd probably have a monster hangover in the morning, along with an additional layer of headache from the bump above his eye, but he was otherwise okay. That was the important thing.

Dean shakes Taylor's father's hand, genuinely appreciative of all the man has done to keep Sam out of real trouble. The gratitude is returned, and the relieved father details how Dean's little brother was the one responsible for getting them medical attention so quickly and caring for them until the cavalry arrived.

Through all of this, Sam has not uttered a sound, even when his brother grabs him, none too gently, under the arm and yanks him to his feet. He grasps Sam's bicep with a vice-like grip and drags him out the door and into the car.

The first few minutes of the drive back to the house are tense. Dean is too angry to speak coherently and Sam just doesn't know how to explain what he did to his brother. He is crushed with guilt over acting so recklessly and thoughtlessly, never mind the overwhelming embarrassment of having to admit that it was all over a girl. Dean wouldn't understand that kind of awkward behavior. He has been attracting the fairer sex like bees to honey Sam's entire life.

In the car with his brother, Sam keeps his head down, waiting for the inevitable storm to be unleashed. His temper put his friends in danger as they tried to help him, he's embarrassed by the knowledge that everyone at school tomorrow is going to hear how his girlfriend got caught banging her ex, he has disobeyed his father's rules and pissed off his big brother.

Yeah, there have been better days in his life.

He doesn't have to wait long for the explosion. Before they are even over town lines, Dean slams his hands on the steering wheel, his quest for patience at an end.

" _ _What the hell__ , Sam!"

Dean's hands are stinging where he hit them on the Impala's steering wheel. He hadn't meant to lose his cool like that, but __god damn it__! What is going on in that head of his brother's? He swears that the kid is just clueless.

"Do you even know what could have happened to you tonight?"

His voice is hard and raspy. It's not really a question, more like an accusation. He looks over and sees Sam's face blush an even deeper red than it has already been and the sight of this tempers his anger a little.

Dean reaches up with his right hand and rubs his face tiredly. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to play bad cop. He knows his brother well enough to see how upset Sam is and reminds himself that it's the kid's first time in real trouble.

Sam is determinedly staring straight ahead and Dean knows his brother's moods well enough to know that the kid is struggling to keep it together. He reminds himself again that Sam is unhurt, that the accident could have been so much worse and, as much as he doesn't like it, this will all be over as soon as the two-fifty in court fines is paid. He has the money set aside. It might make for a leaner Christmas than he wanted to have, but that's okay.

He can't delude himself into thinking that they can keep this away from their father. Dean would never dream of doing such a thing. Sam is John's son and he has every right to know what has happened tonight. It's not going to be a pleasant conversation, he knows. Their father is going to tear into Dean up one side and back down the other for being foolish enough to let his kid brother pull one over on him.

The unpleasant reality of this fact stings him, re-igniting his earlier anger over his brother's intentional duplicity in breaking the rules. Dean has stuck his neck out to allow Sam a little more freedom than he should have had, and this is how the little brat repays him.

"What were you thinking, Sam?" he demands, the irritation that he has been forcing himself to repress for the past hour edging its way out of him in full force. "I trusted you to be where you told me you would be."

In truth, Sam doesn't know how to answer that question. What __was__ he thinking? He's never been the kind of person to act recklessly like that. Has always been the one to reprove his big brother when Dean took unnecessary risks to his own safety.

Not only that, but he has really abused his friendship with Michael, who was hurt and now has a wrecked car because he was trying to make Sam happy. Michael and his parents have been really nice to Sam. Now he doesn't know if the friendship is even salvageable, and that thought pains him.

"I'm waiting for an answer here, kiddo," Dean scolds in a voice that sounds suspiciously close to their father's tone and Sam can feel himself bristle from it out of sheer habit.

He finds himself forgetting that the person on the other end of this stunted conversation is the brother that has always given a hundred and ten percent of himself, and not the constantly absent father that Sam can't stop himself from treating with hostility because it's easier than admitting how much he misses him when he's gone.

Sam huffs in annoyance, reminds himself of all of the trouble that his brother got into during his teen years and can't repress the hurt feelings that his brother is being a hypocrite.

"You've done worse," he mutters, mentally deluding himself into thinking that his words are not loud enough to be heard.

Dean's hearing, however, is just fine and he has no trouble either in picking up the words or the underlining petulance behind them. He is more than a little perturbed by the nerve of his little brother attempting to throw Dean's teen mischief in his face at a time like this.

Dean may not have been an angel, but his exploits were few and far between, and most of his youthful indiscretions were either to work the job or keep his brother fed and housed. When he was Sam's age, Dean had much healthier fears of John's temper and his belt, both of which were overpowered by Dean's almost paralyzing fear of his father's disappointment. Topping that off with his blind devotion to his little brother's safety and well being and it didn't make for much opportunity to run amok.

"I never said I was perfect, Sammy," he warned in a low growl as he fought to keep calm, "but this...I don't know what this was. I trusted you. And you just did what you wanted to anyway, without giving a shit."

Sam bit down on the inside of his cheek at the reprimand. He knew that he had broken faith with his brother. That Dean had every right to tear a few strips off of him for doing so. He's crippled with the guilt of knowing just how hard Dean has worked to give him everything they have right now, and it's all he can do to keep the flood of embarrassing tears threatening behind his eyes at bay.

Sam's refusal to speak any further is grating on Dean's last nerve and he is _thisclose_ to completely losing it. His ass is on the line now with their father too, and he is not real happy about it. He grits his teeth in frustration knowing that he is going to do what he always does, and that is whatever it takes to minimize the fallout for his little brother.

He's run interference for Sammy the kid's entire life, and he is not about to stop now, especially since Dean is not a child anymore and there is little that John can actually do to him outside the blistering reprimand that is surely in his future.

He runs his hand through his cropped hair and lets out a deep cleansing sigh before throwing the kid another glare. Sam is still determinedly keeping his jaw set, but Dean knows that the kid is probably drowning inside.

"You don't want to talk about it, fine. We'll get this all straightened out," he finally says, hoping that the words bring more comfort than they sound.

"But this is the last time something like this happens, Sam," he warns firmly. "If I can't trust you, you're grounded until you get your head out of your ass. Maybe in a couple of weeks you can have your friends come over to study if Dad says it's okay, but you aren't leaving the house."

These words slam into Sam like a tidal wave and he turns a furious stare over onto his brother. It's part vicious pang that Michael and the others may not even want to hang out with him anymore and part annoyance at Dean treating him like a child and putting him on lock down like Dad does. He forgets his own actions of the evening and burns in a rage.

"You have no right to do that, Dean," he hisses, as his temper flares. "You're not Dad, you know."

Dean's annoyance trumps Sam's. The kid just does not know when to quit while he's ahead. Dean knows that if he can persuade John that he has already handled the situation, there is a slim chance that his father won't murder his brother for his little venture in juvenile delinquency, and he is trying to do him a kindness here. He brings the car to a complete stop in the empty road and puts her in park.

"You're right, Sammy," he seethes, his teeth clenched. "If I __was__ Dad? You'd be bent over the hood of the car right now getting your ass whipped."

Dean holds Sam's stare until the boy finally turns away. His little brother knows that what he just said is entirely true. John has exactly zero patience for this kind of defiance and he has never hesitated to demonstrate it to either of his sons.

After Dean starts driving again, the rest of the trip home is completely silent. Dean finds himself wondering how long it's going to take for all of this to blow over and whether or not it will before he gives his little brother a serious beat down.

When they get back to the house, it is already late in the evening. Both of them are tired, cold and weary. Sam shuffles into the living room, carelessly tossing his backpack on the couch as he waits for his brother to come in behind him. He's already regretting the attitude that he gave Dean in the car and wants to clear the air a little.

It's just like it is with his father. Sam knows that he royally messed up this evening, but he just finds himself getting so angry at being treated like a child all the time by his father and brother that he lashes out. Mostly, it is John who bears the brunt of his angst. Sam is usually so wrapped up in being mad at his father that Dean is forever trying to make him feel better, and Sam is ashamed of the way he has spoken to his brother tonight.

Dean stomps in behind him, his jaw still clenched and Sam winces slightly. He opens his mouth to break the ice, but his brother beats him to the punch.

"You heard what I said, Sam," he snaps, holding his hand up to prevent more conversation. "Go to your room and get to bed. It's late and you have school in the morning."

Dean had not meant to sound unkind or like he was issuing an order. He was just drop dead exhausted, bleeding tension and truthfully tired of his little brother's crap. Just wanting this whole night to be over already, and the words come out a bit more harsh than he had intended.

Unfortunately, Sam does not know this and his own roller coaster of emotions starts spinning wildly again.

"Screw you, Dean," he spits out, hurt. "Stop trying to tell me what to do!"

Sam had turned around and was holding a firm offensive stance, staring down his brother, and Dean was more than a little taken aback by his reaction. His mouth is frozen open, like a fish sucking for water, wondering again what the hell just happened to set off Sam's unpredictable temper

Sam mistakes the incredulous look on his brother's face for condescension, and every teenage hackle in his body gets raised in fury. His voice is practically dripping in venom and Dean gets his first taste of the dark streak in his little brother that will wreak havoc upon them as adults years later.

"You just _love_ the fact that you now have legal authority over me," Sam spits out, with a malicious glint blazing in his eyes, and the words come out with a bitterness that has clearly been building over time.

"No matter how much you want to be, Dean, you are __not Dad__!" Sam growls, his face ablaze. "You're just his obedient little soldier, so stop pretending that you are my father, and stop telling me how to live my life!"

That line of vicious assault is apparently not enough in Sam's blurred mind to get his point across and, without sobriety to filter the shit from his mouth, he takes his assault one step further.

"You're only cool with letting my friends come here because you're just jealous you don't have any of your own and want mine. Why don't you stop sticking yourself in my social life and get one for yourself. Or are you really so pathetic that you can't manage it?"

When the words are out of Sam's mouth, he immediately feels sick. It was as if someone else had taken over his body and spoken vile, unforgivable things, leaving him powerless to stop it. But he knows that it's not true. He's himself and he alone is responsible for putting that devastated look on his adored big brother's face.

Dean's face has gone almost completely white and the poison that has spilled from his kid brother's mouth has hit him harder than a kick to the gut. The critically low level of self esteem that he possesses has taken a mortal hit, and he is finding it hard to breathe. He feels himself drowning in the memory of what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his father's anger and disapproving looks after the Shtriga and Flagstaff fiascoes, Sammy looking uncomfortably similar to a young John Winchester.

Sam wants to say something, _anything_ , to convince his brother how sorry he is, for everything that has gone on this terrible evening but, like a large cosmic joke, words spectacularly fail the boy that can always find something to say. He can't manage to do anything other than stare at the havoc of his brother's slumped posture as he struggles to catch a breath.

Dean has allowed himself several seconds of pain before he follows form and pushes it deep down inside.

He can't even look at his brother right now and, to prove it, he stomps up the stairs to his own room and slams the door shut with such force that the ancient window panes in the kitchen rattle. Sam watches him storm out, his heart dropping into his stomach, and when the door slams with such violent finality, he sinks to the couch and buries his face in his hands as he tries to breath.

/

If there was ever a time in his life to bury himself in the bottom of a bottle, it would be right now.

He doesn't know what kind of look he had on his face that must have prompted Ellen to take pity on him enough to let him crash in the bunkhouse out back. After hearing everything that Fox had to say, John's entire world had been rocked to its very foundation, and he wasn't sure that the walls that tumbled down could ever be rebuilt.

He sits on the edge of the narrow single bed with the undeniable photographic proof dangling from uncertain fingers.

There were no doubts that this was his Mary.

It is her long, blonde tresses, carelessly tied back and draped over her shoulder as she was sliding into the car.

 _Her_ car.

Her _Camaro._

The one that she would take on mysterious trips. Trips she would tell him nothing about, but had always seemed to have such a profound affect on her.

Trips that sometimes left her bruised and scarred, but also managed to lift a small burden from her shoulders.

After all of these years in The Life, and considering himself a meticulously observant man, John couldn't help wondering why the thought had never occurred to him before.

Maybe some smart part of him did suspect. Maybe it was this same part that didn't allow the suspicion to fully surface, unwilling to interfere with John's fervent quest to bring her murderer to justice.

And maybe that same part knew that John might take a pause if he even semi-considered the idea that it was the hunting past of his wife that had brought all of the resulting tragedy down on their family in the first place.

Although, to be fair, even John had to admit that it was unlikely to have altered his course. He had meant it when he told Mary that he didn't care what she had in her past. She could have come out and just been honest with him, and he still would have loved her.

Married her and made babies with her, because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was the love of his life, and that devotion didn't come with exceptions.

When the demon in Minneapolis had insinuated that she had been the one responsible for that terrible night in the nursery, John dismissed it as the deception of hell spawn. They were gifted artists in creating hurtful artifice when it suited their purposes.

It was only when Singer had contacted him with a story that was so incredible it couldn't possibly be true that he had given it a second thought.

Truthfully, he would have laughed the entire concept away if it hadn't been for that Polaroid. You can fake a lot of photographs, but this one was simply too old and too well worn to discount. He wouldn't admit it, but he had a grudging admiration for Fox.

He had heard of him, from time to time, from other hunters in their community. If he was honest with himself, there was a slight undercurrent of understanding and pride at the thought that Mary had not only saved this young man's life, but by doing so, was also directly responsible for the lives of everyone that Fox himself had saved over the years.

It was a heady thought.

Not that it quelled the anger that was burning inside of him over the havoc it had wrought on his own children.

Ever since John had picked up his first gun and gone out into the world of supernatural evil, he had told his boys that it was their job to save other people. Innocents who didn't have their knowledge and could not protect themselves from what goes bump in the night.

He stood by that now, but he also knew that there was a part of him that would never truly forgive his love for setting himself and their boys on this path from which there was no return to a civilian life. His children had deserved better. They should have had their chance at a happy home life where they didn't need to fear the things in the dark.

It was simply too late for that now, but John found himself needing to start balancing out the uneven side of the scale. Dean had been right to settle himself and Sam down for a while. Their road was still stretched out in front of them, but they could take a breath.

For a little while, anyway.

Born to this life, whether they knew it or not, he owed it to his kids to start making it up to them.

/

The tension in the air the next morning is palpable, and Sam is afraid to do or say anything that might aggravate the situation. He desperately wants to apologize, knowing that such emotional overtures make his brother uncomfortable, the task Herculean in size given the measure of the offense.

He is hurt, but honestly not surprised, that Dean has not woken him up this morning with his usual hearty bang on the door and the cheery " _ _Rise and shine, Sammy__ ," that usually makes him groan and smile just a little bit. There is no wake up call this morning, despite the fact that it is well past the time that he and Dean should be taking their morning five mile run.

Normally, Sam would whoop with joy over being excused from the early workout that he despises, but today it just emphasizes the gulf between his brother and himself.

Although he can hear Dean going about his morning routine, there is a disquieting absence of the goofy noises he usually makes. Since they were little, Dean is far too chipper after his first cup of coffee in the morning for Sam's taste. Sam has not really slept at all during the night, and he is weary but wide awake when he hesitantly slinks down the stairs to the kitchen.

Things are off there too, and Sam feels an additional stab of guilt from their conversation the previous morning. Every day of Sam's life, Dean will set a place for his brother at the table, putting out the cereal box or fruit, or muffins. Whatever Sam has been of a mind to eat lately.

This morning, as Sam spots the empty table, a sharp pain of hurt bursts in his chest and he sadly reminds himself that he has demanded that his brother stop treating him like a kid. So, be careful what you wish for, kiddo, because big boys can get their own damn cereal.

Dean is standing at the counter with his back to Sam as he drinks one of several cups of morning coffee. He says nothing as Sam pads slowly over to the cabinet and pulls out the container of granola, trying to catch a surreptitious glance at his brother's face. He wants so badly to talk to him.

"Dean?" he tries, his voice small and hesitant.

His brother doesn't even look at him, so Sam has no idea how much it hurts Dean to hear the sad little tone in his brother's voice. All Sam sees is his brother flinching slightly, right before he dumps the rest of his coffee in the sink and head towards the front door.

"I'm leaving in five minutes, if you still want a ride to school." Dean growls, without turning around.

Sam sucks in a harsh gasp of air at the rebuff and he replaces the granola in the cabinet, any trace of appetite he might have possessed vanishing. Sullenly, he goes into the living room, hoists his backpack on his shoulder and heads out to the car to face the hostile atmosphere of the long drive.

Sam can't seem to summon the courage for another attempt at communication. Taking the coward's way out, he convinces himself that it would just be better to wait until after school to try to apologize. Dean enjoys the work he does at Bobby's and has, on more than one occasion, taken the opportunity to work out anger and frustration on the cars there.

When Dean pulls up to the drop off curb, Sam turns to his brother, wanting no more than to just give him a little smile, a poor but genuine stab at smoothing things over, but Dean is staring straight ahead, his jaw firmly set and unyielding.

"I'll be back at five," Dean says, his tone empty and void of any emotion, and the smile on Sam's face slips completely as he gathers his things.

"Okay. Thanks for the ride."

The words are hard for Sam to get out, his voice weak and trembling. With a heavy heart he slides out of the squeaky heavy door. He barely has the time to close it before Dean guns the engine and tears away at a speed that is much too fast for a school zone. Sam sadly watches him go before trudging towards the door, not looking forward to more fallout from the previous night's events.

/

As Dean speeds away from the school, his head throbs menacingly. He didn't sleep at all during the night, unable to breathe properly from the pain he is feeling. It has always been his way. Since he was a little boy charged with the responsibility of caring for Sam, he has sworn to never let his little brother see him weak.

He has hidden a multitude of hurts and injuries from Sam over the years, physical and mental. He is finding it hard to accept that the overwhelming ache that is smothering him right now has been caused by the person he least expected it from.

From the moment he carried Sam out of the burning house, he has dedicated his life to caring for the boy. It was just an instinct ingrained into his every conscious and subconscious thought. If he is honest with himself, he will admit that part of the job is to be overbearing at times out of necessity. Sam is infuriatingly stubborn by nature, and has truly inherited their father's determination to always do things his own way, regardless of who gets stepped on this process.

He hears Sam's accusations reverberating in his mind. _ _"You're not Dad, you know."__ Dean laughs humorlessly to himself.

 _ _Yeah, that's right, Sammy. If I was Dad, your little ass would still be sitting in the__ _ _emergency room__ _ _, waiting for someone else to come and take care of yo__ _ _u because Dad's deep in a hunt and can't be reached.__

He slams his hand on the wheel again in frustration and presses harder on the accelerator, making it to Bobby's in record time. Last night, lying sleeplessly on his bed, he had decided on a course of action and he only has until five to set everything in motion.

/

School is just as difficult as Sam expected it to be.

The school is small and everyone has already heard all of the gossip regarding Kristin's betrayal. Kristin herself is apparently too cowardly to appear today. Trenton is strutting around the cock of the walk, and some of the football players are throwing snide glares in Sam's direction. It's never really sat well with some of them that the new kid managed to score one of the girls the team thinks of as their own.

Neither of the other three involved in the accident have made it in today either, and that's okay because Sam doesn't think he could bear seeing their disapproving faces in the wake of his own troubles with his brother. He spends the day in a distracted haze, game face on to those that are looking to see how he's handling his social fall from grace.

These kids don't really know Sam Winchester. Have no idea that he has been trained from infancy to keep his emotions close to his vest.

When the last bell of the day finally rings, Sam practically jumps out of his chair and makes a beeline for the parking lot. He is relieved to see the Impala making the turn to pull in, and releases a breath he doesn't realize he has been holding. He sprints to their usual meeting place, the familiar growling idle of the muscle car bringing a smile to his face. As he opens the passenger door, he vows to do whatever he can to make things right with his brother.

Without paying attention he slides into the leather bench seat, startled when his hip brushes against something. Looking down to his side, he is momentarily confused to see his go-bag bag resting between him and Dean. He knows that their father has already said they wouldn't be meeting up this weekend, and he's wondering if something has happened.

He looks up at Dean and his brother shoots him a quick glance before returning his stare to the windshield. Confused, he watches his brother take a deep breath before putting the car in gear and pulling out of the lot.

"I talked to Dad this morning," Dean states without any preamble. "He's coming here Tuesday afternoon to go to court with you."

The statement, and the coldness in which it is delivered, stuns Sam. He doesn't know how to respond and, as it turns out, Dean is not waiting for him to do so.

"He's passing a hunt to Caleb after I get there to assist him."

Sam's eyes flare in disbelief. As far as Sam knows, Dad has been holed up with Caleb in Des Moines for the past four days trying to locate the body of a murdered girl that goes on a killing spree every year during this week, and John never leaves a job unfinished. Even more disconcerting is the idea that John would allow Dean to take his place. Dean is rarely allowed to go on a hunt by himself with someone other than their father.

"You're staying with Bobby until he gets here." Dean tells him, still determinedly looking away. "I don't know when I'll be back."

So that's it then.

Dean is now truly following in their father's footsteps. He's off on a hunt, and leaving Sam behind indefinitely. The day that Sam has always feared would come is finally here and it feels like a kick to the head. As much as their father's absence has always hurt, angered and occasionally terrified Sam, there was always the comfort of his big brother's steadfast presence to keep him feeling secure.

Sam doesn't care to remember that he had been planning on ditching his brother back during the summer when all he could think about was his own future, and how traveling with Dean and Dad was going to interfere with that.

 _ _Be careful what you wish for, kiddo.__

"You're right, Sam," Dean mutters quietly, briefly glancing at his little brother. "I'm not Dad."

 _No. You're not._ Sam wants to scream _. You're a better father than he is._

Dean's face is unreadable as he mechanically drives the familiar route to the salvage yard. Sam almost doesn't hear him when he speaks again.

"Maybe it's time I look for my own life, just like you said."

It's a devastating blow to Sam's heart. He chokes on the lump in his throat, swallowing quickly while a wave of bile threatens to gag him.

"Dean, I didn't mean that," he pleads, begging with his eyes for his brother to believe him. "I'm so sorry."

Dean just shakes his head, never looking in his brother's direction.

"Don't, Sam. Just. Don't."

Not able to bear his brother's pain, Sam chews on his bottom lip until it bleeds, desperate to take back the entirety of the last twenty-four hours. He can't beg for forgiveness again, because he simply doesn't deserve it.

The rest of the ride to salvage yard is silent, both boys lost in their own dark thoughts. When Dean pulls up to Bobby's house, they sit in the driveway for a minute, neither one of them knowing what to say. Dean keeps his stare straight ahead, knowing that if he turns and lets himself see the puppy dog eyes that Sam is surely sending over to him, his resolve will waiver and he won't be able to resist the urge to back down.

Another minute of uncomfortable silence and Dean can't take it anymore.

"I have to get going. Dad's waiting on me."

Sam's eyes are tearing over, but his brother isn't looking at him, refuses to acknowledge him. Swallowing hard, he tries again to make amends before it is too late and Dean is gone.

"Dean... _please_.."

The mournful tone in his little brother's voice and the slight hitch in his throat almost undoes Dean completely and it takes every ounce of strength he has in him to stop himself from pulling the kid into a hug. He reminds himself that Sam has made his choice, defined his line in the sand. When the chips are really down, he just sees Dean as their father's puppet, nothing more. For years Dean has been deluding himself into thinking that they are closer than this and, as much as it hurts to admit, he has been wrong.

"Goodbye, Sam."

And that is the final nail in Sam's coffin. He hears his brother's flat voice and knows that he has destroyed their relationship. He's not Sammy anymore, he's Sam now. All of his life he has taken everything from Dean and finally his big brother has nothing left to give.

And why should he, after what Sam has said to him?

He grabs his bags from the seat and slowly exits the car, closing the door, hesitant to release the handle because he knows that when he does, his brother will be gone and there is no telling when he'll be back.

Dean doesn't wait for him though. He guns the engine and Sam has to jump back to avoid getting pelted with the gravel that the extra wide tires kick up as the Impala roars out of the salvage yard and back down the drive. Sam watches the car vanish, feeling dead inside and unable to move. He stands there motionless for several minutes until Bobby finally comes out to collect him.

/

Dad doesn't actually have a hunt in Des Moines.

In truth, Dean doesn't know where their father is, and when he does reach John in the morning, the man doesn't offer the information. All Dean knows is that he agrees to meet his son at Caleb's in Lincoln in the evening.

Dean has given his father the basic rundown of what transpired with Sam the previous night. After a frantic inquiry that eventually satisfies John that Sam is not badly injured, Dean waits for the expected tirade over his failures in keeping his brother safe and he's not disappointed.

His father's infuriated voice carried loudly over the connection, and for the briefest of seconds, Dean entertained a ridiculous notion that the man's ire might be enough to melt the phone as he held it. The rebuke ends sooner than he would have suspected, and he can only guess that John is waiting to see him in person before finishing the task of ripping him a new hole.

He doesn't need his father to reprimand him. He's doing a pretty good job all on his own.

/

John ambles along the cracked cement walkway leading up to the front stairs of Caleb's house and lets himself in without knocking. Caleb already knows he's here, because John taught him to be observant like that. If he catches the younger man off his guard, John will happily go a few rounds with him and reinforce his earlier teachings.

A lax awareness on Caleb's part could get the young hunter dead, and John has already lost enough people in his life.

Caleb is working at the dining room table, and looks up with a smile when John enters. There is a gun and a knife within easy reach of the younger man's hands, and John grins, knowing the kind of reception that anyone besides himself would have received.

From Dean's last phone call, he knows that his son will be arriving any minute and he wants to be waiting for him. Dean must be hauling ass as he is making the trip in less than three hours and John knows better than to think it is because his son is anxious to be on the hunt.

When Dean called him that morning and explained what had happened, John had lost his temper with his oldest and verbally flayed the boy alive for allowing such a thing to happen. Furthermore, he was entirely put out by Dean's insistence that John himself pack up and go to Sam's court appearance with him.

But it didn't take long for John to catch the note of defeat in Dean's voice as the boy took full responsibility for Sam's actions and begged his father's forgiveness for failing him, making John kick himself for his earlier rebuke.

He knows first hand how difficult his youngest can be, knows how much he has failed his children himself time and again. Dean has unfairly been forced to grow up well before his time, almost unfailingly rising to the occasion without hesitation or complaint, and John routinely acknowledges that he has placed an unfair burden on his oldest son's shoulders.

Something has gone horribly wrong between his boys and he knows, especially in light of his new information about Mary, that it is time for him to put aside the hunt for a minute and take care of his children.

The distinct rumble of the Impala's engine heralds his son's arrival and he rises from the well worn sofa to open the door of the house. It takes just a few seconds for Dean to spot him and John guilty observes the hesitant and cautious way that his son approaches him. While it is true that he has always thought it best to instill a healthy sense of fear of himself into his sons in his bid to keep them obedient of his orders and, subsequently, safer, it has never been his intention to make them afraid to talk to him.

Watching Dean's blatant unease, he realizes that this is __exactly__ what he has done.

When his son climbs the front steps and is standing directly in front of him, John easily sees the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and Dean's posture, usually as rigid as any Marine in formation when he is standing in his father's presence, is slumped in defeat.

But most telling of all is the haunted look in the bright green eyes that are one of the only physical characteristics that his oldest inherited from John's own mother. One glance and John knows instantly that there is something decidedly broken in his son.

In a small gesture of affection, John reaches out and cups the back of Dean's neck, his thumb gently rubbing just underneath his hairline. He wants to hug his son, John has never shied away from showing his children affection. But Dean can get skittish, and prickly about physical contact when he's feeling especially low, and John knows how hard he is taking his own part in last night's fiasco.

Dean won't want to accept his father's embrace right now, and John doesn't force him. Any further attempt might result in the boy having his emotional barriers completely break down, and neither one of them can bear that right now.

He tugs Dean inside the room, releasing him to grab the neck of a bottle of _El Sol_ , Dean's favorite beer. He pushes the bottle into his son's right hand and a thick folder of research on the reports of eaten bodies that Caleb is actually researching into the left.

Through this, neither have spoken a word, but as Dean sips the pale ale and peruses the file, he shoots his father several grateful looks. John is actually not the heartless bastard that many of his fellow hunters and, from time to time, his youngest son believe him to be. On occasion, he does have a sense of what his children truly need.

/

Sam spends the weekend holed up in the room that he and his brother usually share in Uncle Bobby's house. From time to time the salvage man knocks on the door and tries to coax the boy out for a meal, or even just some fresh air, but Sam has no interest in talking to or seeing anybody. He lays on his stomach on the bed and tries to breath through the lead weight that is pressing down on his chest.

Just a couple of days ago, his life had happiness and order to it, and now it lay in ruins right at his feet, and there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.

He wasn't quite sure what had made him act so stupidly. Blind to see the things around him that were going on while he wasn't even bothering to pay attention.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Kristin had been cheating on him for a while. Maybe the entire time. That thought had sobered him, and destroyed what little confidence he had managed to build up in the romance department. Always terminally shy in the first place, it hadn't been easy to open up to a girl like that.

It's not like he had any good experiences with a girl. The only other one he had ever even kissed had been a monster that his father and brother had been hunting.

Amy had killed her own mother to save Sam's life, so it wasn't exactly what you would call a healthy relationship.

It didn't matter anyway.

His relationship with Kristin, regardless of what it may or may not have been, was well and truly over, and Sam was resigned to just dig further into his studies and bide his time unattached until he could graduate.

Dad and Dean had always told him that he couldn't have connections in the life they led, and Sam had always balked at that, thinking that it would be easier in civilian life. Apparently, he was wrong. It was just as painful to lose someone when you were _normal_.

He couldn't make himself try to call the other three that had been in the car that night. Michael most of all. Sam had never had any real close friends, besides his brother.

 _And he couldn't think about Dean right now because that topic was far too painful to allow in through the cracks of his consciousness._

For so many years, Sam had been sure that if he was just given the chance to stay still in one place long enough to let people get to know the _real_ him, he would easily slide into a regular life. He had been given that chance here. The opportunity to live like he had always dreamed of doing at night while lying in the bed of another random motel room and feeling sorry for himself.

This time he didn't have his father to blame for dragging him away from a girl or from friends. This time it was all on Sam, and that knowledge crushed him even further.

He wouldn't have thought he would find himself feeling a degree of shame for blaming John for all of his unhappiness. It was much easier to lash out at his father and brother for all for all of the injustices he felt about their lifestyle.

Dad has prepared Sam for many things in life, but his father never prepared Sam for the hurt and rejection that a kid could be subjected to when it wasn't coupled with the overwhelming burden of a hunter's life. Truthfully, Sam wouldn't have thought it possible, sure that every negative experience he had regarding a social life was because of the fucked up way they lived, and not just the hazards of being the average American teenager.

Now that he was thinking more rationally, he had to come to the uncomfortable conclusion that he had no business being such an ass about his family's restrictions in the first place. For all of his talk of wanting _normal_ , he had certainly been intentionally ignoring the very real fact that most of his friends had rules and curfews of their own to obey. Maybe not all as strict as Sam's, although some of them were.

In his desire to have a different life altogether, he found himself wanting _everything,_ and when reality interfered with the apple pie life he envisioned for himself, it was a cold cup of coffee to the face when he finally understood that no one's life was perfect.

No matter how much a person could have, it usually didn't stop them from wanting more.

Sam was coming late to that party of thought, and he had only needed to lose his girlfriend, alienate his friends and demolish his relationship with his brother to do it.

Dad always did tell him that if you were going to do a job, make sure you go all the way.

Somehow, Sam didn't think that John would be too pleased with the lengths his youngest son went in this particular endeavor.

The hours passed slowly. Day falling into night, then day again, and then another quiet dark night alone his room. Uncle Bobby pulled the adult card and demanded his presence at the dinner table Sunday. Sam knew that his uncle cared for him, and was worried, but while he could force Sam to sit at the table, he couldn't force him to eat.

Eventually Sam was allowed back upstairs to continue his vigil of sleepless worry.

Over the weekend, he had called Dean's phone almost a dozen times, desperate to try and talk to his brother. To make amends with the one person who had always been there for him, no matter what, and who Sam had thoroughly destroyed without a second thought to how biting and vicious his words were when he was saying them.

The calls all went straight to voicemail, and eventually he had just stopped, knowing that if he was in Dean's shoes, he wouldn't want to talk to Sam either. Uncle Bobby had mentioned during their aborted dinner that he had spoken to Dean just a little earlier, so at least Sam knew his brother was still alive.

Dean, who had given up everything to move Sam into a real house. Dean, who worked hard all day to pay bills so they were living on the level for once. Dean, who managed to convince their father to let Sam attend a good school that drastically increased his college acceptance levels. Dean, who happily ferried Sam everywhere he wanted to go, and paid for his fancy tuition. Cooked their meals and did their laundry.

Dean, who had never asked for anything in return except a little consideration, which Sam hadn't even been able to summon up over his own desires.

The list was endless, when Sam ran them all through his head. He let out a gut wrenching unmanly sob and cried for being such a selfish and inconsiderate asshole, because he genuinely loved his brother more than anyone else in the world, including either of their parents, and he knew that he was the cause of the pain in Dean's eyes that last morning.

It might be too late now. Dean might have just finally said _the hell with it_ and gone his own way, and Sam would have no one to blame but himself because he was the one that told his perpetually unselfish brother to _get a life_.

Dean had a life.

The one he routinely gave to Sam and to Dad.

As the clock on the wall ticked ever closer to the hour when Sam would have to get up for school Monday morning, he vowed that he would do whatever it took to get his brother back. Even if it meant going back on the road where Dean was happiest.

He owed that much to his brother.

/

There was nothing like cutting off a few zombie heads to make Dean Winchester happy.

Out in the field, machete at the ready, pumped up and swinging, Dean was able to shut off his mind and enjoy laying waste to evil.

It was supposed to be a two man job.

Caleb and John had been prepared to take it on alone, but with Dean's unexpected last minute arrival, they had more than enough manpower.

Not that they needed it.

With Dean desperate to get out of his own head space, the young hunter had blazed in, steadfast and determined, and took down the entire cursed cemetery almost completely on his own.

John had watched his boy, with a mixture of pride and terror as Dean lay waste to the undead bodies in his wake. His son was a talented hunter, to be sure, and while John could appreciate the skill Dean exhibited, the father in John didn't like the cold look of murder in his child's eyes.

Hunters needed that special brand of bravery and air of no hesitation to get the job done, but it didn't mean that Dean's _Dad_ was comfortable seeing it exhibited by his kid in that ruthless of a manner.

Once the hunt was over, John had taken off, after giving Dean his word that he would be there for Sam's court appearance. Dean and Caleb spent the night going out on the town, and Caleb wasn't the least bit surprised when Dean gave him the signal that he was hooking up with the waitress at the bar they where they spent the night drinking and playing darts.

In the pale shades of dawn, Dean lay in the tangled up sheets of the waitress' bed.

 _Mindy? Mandy? Cindy?_

It didn't matter. One pretty face just blurred into another over time.

The bed smelled like _Impulse Body Spray_ and sex as Dean slipped out from under the rumpled flat sheet. The ambient light peeking in through the window illuminated his nude form, muscles taut and chiseled like a Rodin sculpture.

If he was being perfectly honest, part of his unattached indifference towards women stemmed from the fact that he was so often objectified himself. He was a good looking guy.

He knew it.

While covering over the cracks of his low self image with finely crafted bravado, he would often go over the top to brag about it.

Sammy, _Sam,_ often poked at Dean's casual disregard for the women he had sex with, but what his know-it-all little brother _didn't_ realize was that a lot of ladies were just as happy to use Dean's body for their own pleasure.

Lust and a tendency for acting shallow wasn't reserved solely for guys.

As angry and hurt as he was, Dean really hoped that his little brother never felt the rejection of a woman who had only been interested in having an attractive guy service her desires without feeling a need to bother to even ask his name sometimes, or stick around long enough to find out what he had to offer.

And Dean _did_ have a lot to offer.

Of course, it wasn't for the women that shared a bed with him, or the backseat of his car, because he only had so much on tap, and what he did have he reserved for his family.

Dad and Sam both took a lot of energy. More than Dean could painlessly summon up somedays. Sometimes what it took to make them happy came at the cost of Dean's own life force.

Yet he would give it willingly, _in full_ , every single time, because that is what you did for family, and regardless of his brother's hurtful words, Dean wasn't going to apologize for it.

Dean didn't have friends because he didn't have time for them. When Sammy, _Sam_ , was out socializing and trying to fit in, Dean was worrying to death about keeping them both safe and fed when their father would disappear for weeks at a time.

While his little brother was reading books and waxing poetic about the unfairness in life, Dean was making sure that Sam's clothes were clean so they didn't look homeless and uncared for at their ever changing schools.

There just wasn't any time for the older brother to _get a life of his own_.

For that matter, Dean couldn't get a woman of his own because he had chosen his life already. The life of a hunter.

And it was brutal. And dangerous. Unpredictable, and came at the cost of loved ones. And it only ended one way.

Dean may be callous, but he wasn't callous enough to leave behind a wife and kids to grieve him when he got dead before the age of thirty.

He could never, _ever_ do that to _family_.

It was selfish and cruel and he wasn't going to be the kind of man that did that.

It was hard enough to worry about his father and brother in the lives they led. Dean knew he would never survive losing either of them and remain whole. The loss of his mother had already taken a huge part of him, and any other loss would slash away more vital organs, leaving Dean a broken wreck of a human being.

Every hunt they undertook had him hoping against hope that if someone had to go out bloody, it would be him and not one of the other Winchester men.

John and Sam were strong, and they would both survive losing him far better than he could survive the loss of them.

So he didn't date with intent. And he didn't extend his hand in close friendship.

Because it was purely self defense that he didn't put himself in a position where he would be increasing the number of people that it would break him to lose.

Why Sam couldn't realize that, Dean didn't know, and honestly, he no longer had the strength to try and get his kid brother to understand.

Sammy kept calling, and damn it, Dean wanted to answer, because it was ingrained in him to respond when his brother needed him. Like the classic conditioning of a Pavlovian dog unable to stop, and it was humiliating that he was twenty-one and had molded his entire life around his kid brother's needs and happiness.

When clearly Sam didn't need him anymore. Resented him and chafed under his thumb as much as he ever had under their Dad's heavy hand. At least Sam showed a grudging deference to their father in acknowledging that the man had some right to steer him to manhood.

As if Dean hadn't been raising his little brother right alongside himself, when Dean was a scared kid, trying to figure it all out on his own and unwilling to burden their dad with inane questions and insecure moments.

It was no wonder that Dean chose to lose himself in a hunt, or a woman, or a six pack of beer, desperate, just for a moment to lose the crushing weight that accompanied his terror that his best would never be good enough to care for his brother. The person who mattered to him above everything else.

Dean spent the next couple of days crashing on Caleb's couch, not bothering to mess up one of the guest room beds. He didn't need much for himself, sleeping only a few hours a day anyway, and a lumpy couch was good enough for him.

Caleb was already off on another job, and Dean had been tempted to go along, but the job was in Arizona, and the part of Dean that didn't trust his father completely to be at Sam's side when he went to court kept the big brother within a few hours drive of Sioux Falls, just in case.

He spent the better part of that day walking the streets of downtown Lincoln, observing, with a hunter's critical eye, the hordes of people coming and going without care. Mired in the banality of their every day lives, without an inkling of what lurked in the shadows.

Most of them didn't even pay attention to him as he walked along, unless it was to get the occasional leering hopeful stare from a woman or, sometimes, even the occasional man.

As he watched them all scurry about their ordinary, everyday business, he knew, deep in his gut, that he would throw himself into hunt to protect them.

But he could never be one of them.

Because that wasn't _his life_.

/

It's just after two in the afternoon when John's truck pulls into Singer Salvage. He's left Dean with Caleb in Lincoln, the hunt they took together during the weekend successfully completed, and John's own side trip to Blue Earth yielding more disquieting information about Mary's parents that he really didn't want to contemplate just yet.

When this mini-drama with Sam is over, he has a few more trips to make, but he can't think about that now because the very weight of them will incapacitate him, and he still has his boys to care for at the moment.

Bobby answers the door when he knocks and the two exchange quick perfunctory pleasantries. An outsider would be hard pressed to believe that the two men are actually friends from looking at their body language, but there is no doubt that they are.

Over time, the distance between them has grown, as John's obsession took over more and more, but they are still as close as family ever could be, and John will always be that scared but determined young father that he was when he first arrived on Bobby's doorstep all those years ago.

Sam, alerted to his father's arrival by the sound of the truck's throaty motor, is already standing nervously by the couch, chewing on his pinkie nail when his father comes into the room. His shoulders are hunched in either defeat or sadness, or a combination of both, making him look significantly smaller than his increasing height.

"Let's go, Samuel," John commands, his words stern and unyielding.

Sam immediately obeys, grabbing his backpack and go-bag, hurrying over to where his father is standing. He has no desire to infuriate John more than he has already by giving him any attitude. John jerks his chin in Bobby's direction and stares at his son meaningfully.

"What do you say?" he demands, and Sam feels his face flushing at the humiliating prompt.

"Thank you for letting me stay over for the last few days, Uncle Bobby," he replies as politely as he can.

He knows what is expected of him. Good manners have been drummed into their heads since they were old enough to speak, and although the boys have practically lived in this house, they are still expected to be appreciative.

Bobby watches them uneasily as John snags Sam by the back of the boy's jacket and firmly pushes him towards the door. He knows that John is rough by nature but, in all fairness, especially after that regrettable incident, truly incapable of doing anything to genuinely hurt either of his boys. However, he isn't foolish enough to not know that Sam is in for it when his father gets him alone and, for once, Bobby agrees.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on him, Bobby," John mutters.

His words are quiet and gruff, but they are genuine and Bobby knows this. Bobby's not a religious man, having lost faith in the Almighty right around the time his wife got possessed, but he's still praying that everything works itself out for the little family.

These past few days have been rough on all of them.

Strapped into the passenger seat of his father's big black truck, Sam keeps his eyes glued to the floor as John yells. He doesn't actually have to pay attention to the words to understand what his father is saying, knowing perfectly well how many Winchester family rules he has smashed and, on this occasion, his father's chastisement doesn't inspire him to go on the offensive.

He's too broken up about what he has done to his relationship with his brother to care about anything else. He knows that there will be a reckoning when his father gets him alone later, and he doesn't particularly care about that either.

For his part, John unloads his irritation on his youngest until he realizes that Sam is already cowed to the point of not feeling anymore. He's been expecting the usual fight that comes from his son and it never materializes. For once, Sam has mostly kept his mouth shut, simply inserting the appropriate __'yes sirs'__ and __'no sirs'__ where required and quietly apologizing repeatedly. He wonders if Sam is really that nervous over his court appearance and lets it go for the moment.

They arrive at the small town court twenty minutes ahead of schedule and join the other parties already sitting in the folding chairs in front of the table that John assumes the town justice uses as his bench. Dean has already explained the situation to him in detail and John scans the room out of habit to try and get a feel for the other people present.

Taylor's father notices them and makes his way over. Once again he thanks Sam for what he did in assisting the other kids, especially his little girl. Sam is shy suddenly, blushing because the man doesn't know that it was because of him that they were in the car in the first place. Although the other three have made it perfectly clear in the last two days that they don't blame him, Sam still blames himself.

Taylor's father also thanks John for Sam's knowledge and quick thinking, and John puts a warm hand on Sam's back, proud of his boy, as he returns the thanks for the man's part in Sam's reduced charges. They end the conversation on warm terms as the judge takes the bench.

The hearing goes about as well as John expects. There are a lot of other people in court today. After what seems like forever, the kids are called up to the makeshift bench in turn with their parents. Sam is called second and John pushes his boy to his feet as they approach.

Sam knows what is expected of him and he speaks and reacts accordingly, properly throwing himself at the court's mercy as he knows is required to facilitate his exit from this legal sideshow. John assures the justice that his son has learned his lesson, that they appreciate the consideration of the lesser charge, and that they are willing to pay the fine.

After bestowing the obligatory legal reprimand, the judge releases Sam and directs them over to the court clerk for payment. When John pulls out his wallet to pay, the clerk informs them that Dean had made the payment Friday afternoon, and the disclosure proves to be too much for Sam to handle. He bolts out the door and throws up in the bushes outside the courthouse.

/

In the quiet and semi darkness of Sam's room, John threads his belt back through the loops of his jeans as he watched his son sleep fitfully. If he wasn't feeling helpless about the situation between his boys before, he definitely is now.

Sam was completely silent on the drive back to the house and, in a rare moment of indulgence, John almost decided that the kid had had enough for one day. But his sons have very little consistency in their lives, and discipline and obeying orders are the things that keep them safe.

Sam knows from years of experience what to expect from his father for his behavior and John feels compelled to follow through even though he doesn't particularly want to on this occasion. The past few days have done a number on John and all he wants to do is hug both of his kids and maybe take them out for a movie or a wrestling match if he can find one.

Unfortunately, he can't afford to have either of his boys question his authority and Sam already has a bad tendency towards it.

Once upon a time, John was a good father and, especially now, he is feeling the need to prove that again. One of the things a good father can do is give his children what they need, and occasionally what they need is a firm kick to the ass.

Back at the house, he immediately sends Sam to his room, surprised when his son complies without a single word of protest, because his youngest is famous for working up a head of steam and railing against the injustice of whatever he's being punished for. When John follows him up there a few minutes later, his belt folded up in his hand, he's already steeling himself for the expected shouting match that has become a part of the routine since Sammy was twelve and began standing up to his father in earnest.

This time, it was different.

Sam didn't utter one word as John entered the room, sitting on the edge of his bed, with his hands clasped between his knees and his head down in defeat. He seems surprised when John walks right in, because it's a thing now that he actually has a door of his own to keep closed, and John's pretty sure that Dean would have knocked first. For a second John realizes that maybe he should have as well, because privacy is a rare commodity in their world.

Sam's taken the time to change into his sleep clothes, and John knows that his son will want to just crawl into bed and lick his wounds in private when they are done. Sam's a sulker after a whipping, often ignoring his father and brother for hours.

The boy looks up enough to see that John's belt is already off and ready to get down to business. He swipes a hand across his face, stands shakily and turns around, about to bend over the bed, when his father grabs him gently by the arm and forces Sam to look at him.

John takes one look at his son's face, tears streaming down his thin cheeks and a look in his hazel eyes that breaks his father's heart.

This isn't like Sam.

His youngest is forever spitting fire and bucking every punishment he's ever been given. Never once has he broken down ahead of time and it scares his father.

He guides Sam down to sit back on the bed, taking a place next to him as he palms the side of Sam's face and gives the boy a probing look that leaves no question about what he's asking. Sam chokes for a second and the voice he responds in is that of a young child, hurt and confused, and it's almost too painful for John to bear.

"He's never going to forgive me."

As if a light had been switched on, Sam began to ramble, spitting out every bit of what had happened during the past few days in vivid and emotional detail. His thundercloud of guilt permeated the entire room as he despondently confessed to how badly he had screwed up, including the terrible accusations that he had hurled at his brother and his own shame for having hurt him so badly.

John knows that Sam isn't worked up over the party, because every kid has a moment or two of stupidity and rebellion.

John's had plenty himself.

The kid might have some guilt over getting their family noticed by the local police, since it has been drilled into him since childhood to avoid letting that happen, but John is also pretty sure that this would be one of the things that would usually have Sam raging about the unfairness of their lives, that he has to worry about such caution in the first place.

It wouldn't cause tears.

He's also pretty sure that it's not due to any embarrassment his son is feeling over his relationship with the cute blonde that Dean has told him about. Mary had been so incredibly beautiful, and John knows he isn't lacking in the looks department either, so he's not surprised that their two beautiful baby boys have become good looking young men. Sam's awkward adolescence might still have him reluctant to realize this about himself, but there is no doubt that John's youngest is now eye candy for the young ladies.

But then Sam spills all of the hurtful and mean spirited jabs he took at his brother, who had not done anything to deserve them. To his son's credit, Sam hasn't censored anything in his own defense, including the pointed references to John's own less than stellar parenting skills, and John tries not to be wounded over such a blatant observation.

Not that his youngest ever sugarcoats over the defects that he sees in his father, but poor Dean is usually not dragged into the mix.

John finds his temper rising and falling during Sammy's confession, but he tamps it down with blunt force because this time he is going to _listen_ to everything that his boy has to say, regardless of how cruel and painful it is.

When his son was finally spent, John had a crystal clear picture and he now knows exactly why his oldest looked as haggard and devastated as he had. An assault of that kind from the brother he so fiercely adores would have been catastrophic to Dean, who only lets down his guard around his father and brother.

And not even always then, either.

Wearily, John also acknowledged to himself that he is more than partially responsible for this mess as well. He has put too much on Dean's shoulders since Sam was born, and he has intentionally made them dependent on one another so they won't be left floundering and alone if he falls.

Eventually, after his youngest is done confessing, he had coaxed an emotionally wrecked Sam into the bed and encouraged him to try and get some much needed sleep. Singer hadn't been kidding when he said that Sam never slept at his house. Completely drained, Sam put up no resistance, obediently crawling under his blankets, and hopeful for the sweet and uncomplicated release of slumber.

Feeling immense sadness, John sat on the edge of the bed and watched over his achingly young looking son until Sam's breathing finally evened out. It's not often that he's around when his kids are emotionally hurting, and even less often that either of his children will allow him to care for them, and he is woefully out of practice, as much as he regrets that.

He bitterly pushed back against the crushing tide of his own failures and is smart enough to realize that what both of his boys need is each other. A design of his own making that is now biting him in the ass when he sees first hand proof of what it does to them to be apart.

Once he is sure that Sam is out for the count, he makes his way downstairs and into the kitchen, pulls his cellphone out and dials.

/

" _Come home,_ _S_ _on_."

Panic wedged in his throat, Dean races back to Sioux Falls as if Lucifer himself was giving chase, the tone in his father's summons scaring the crap out of him. Although John has assured him that Sam is safe and sleeping in his room, in no physical danger, he also said that Sam needs him, __truly needs him__ , and Dean wastes no time getting back.

Any thought of hurt he still feels from his little brother's words vanish when the reflex of the protective big brother kicks back in with a vengeance.

He pulls into the driveway, parking behind his father's truck and practically jumps from the car and bolts through the front door. John is sitting on the sofa in the living room, the bottle of Jose Cuervo that Dean has kept in the upper cabinet for his visits open and partially drained on the coffee table in front of him. His father looks bone tired as he nurses the tumbler in his hand.

"Sit down, Son. We need to talk."

Fifteen tense minutes later, Dean climbs the stairs and walks over to Sam's room, gently rapping on the door before entering. The room is dark, soft moonlight casting shadows on the blue walls, but he can make out the faint outline of his brother on the bed. Sam is lying with his back to the door and Dean slowly makes his way over, sitting on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight and alerting Sam to the fact that there is someone next to him.

Sam wakes, but doesn't turn around, thinking that it is John come to check on him. He's embarrassed by his earlier outburst, knowing how his father feels about overt displays of emotion. He keeps his eyes shut in the hope that his father will just assume that he is still sleeping and leave, and is completely unprepared for the voice he hears.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says softly, and the sound of his brother's voice makes Sam's breathing hitch.

He spins around in surprise and sees the gentle familiar look on his big brother's face. The look that tells him that things may be okay after all. Sam sits up abruptly against the headboard, his eyes wide with shock, staring at Dean like he's not sure that his brother is really there. Dean gives him a knowing and sympathetic smile and the warm affection in his eyes starts to soothe the pain in Sam's chest.

"You okay, tiger?" Dean teases, a small smirking playing around the corners of his mouth. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Sam nods his head slightly, still somewhat dazed to see his brother sitting there and actually _smiling_ at him. Dean determinedly holds his smile, hopefully long enough to convince Sam that everything is alright and, before he knows it, he finds himself with an armful of little brother as Sam ducks his head into Dean's shoulder.

He feels Sam trembling, knowing his emo kid well enough to guess that more tears are on the way, so he puts extra exertion into the hold he has around Sammy's shoulders, desperately trying to keep his little brother together before he breaks.

They don't speak for several minutes until the unaccustomed closeness starts to make Dean feel uncomfortable. Not that he minds hugging his little brother, especially after everything that has happened, but he is dangerously close to breaking down himself, and his continuing need to stay strong in front of the kid eventually forces him to gently push Sam away.

With a practiced eye, he takes a long hard look at his little brother. Notices the pale face and the dark circles around his eyes.

"Hey, when was the last time you really ate or slept, Sammy? You look like hell."

Mouth gaping in surprise, Sam doesn't respond to the question. He fidgets, trying to rein in his emotions which are all over the place. With another chance to apologize to his brother, he starts to speak before being interrupted when Dean holds his hand up.

"Don't, Sammy," he says quietly, recognizing the look on Sam's face. "It's over. Everything's okay. I swear."

Reluctantly, Sam respects his brother's unwillingness to discuss the tempest of hurt feelings between them and nods briefly, just grateful for whatever forgiveness Dean is willing to give him. Dean nods back at him and for the first time in days, both brothers feel the tension start to slip away.

"C'mon. I'm going to make you something to eat. You need some calories, little brother. And be extra nice to Dad, okay? You really worried him," Dean says over his shoulder as he leaves Sam's room.

When Sam quietly pads his way down into the living room, he sees his father sitting on the sofa in front of the old television, the telltale bottle of Jose a third empty on the coffee table.

As is his way when he is feeling vulnerable, Sam shuffles forward towards the sofa and lays down on it, tucking his long legs up on the end and resting his head on his father's balled up leather jacket that John grabs and lays on his own lap, knowing that his youngest is physically and emotionally wrecked and craving comfort.

Sam's emotions only come in two flavors.

 _Hostile Warrior_ and _Wounded Puppy_.

 _Hostile Warrior_ is winning by a mile these days, but _Wounded Puppy_ still makes the occasional appearance and is not too proud to seek solace from his dad when he is sick or hurting.

Unlike Dean, whose regard for their father is respectful and steady, Sam is always either slugging it out or hugging it out with John. He knows that his dad is probably not done with him yet for this little episode, a Winchester boy never escapes a promised whipping, but he's simply too tired to care about that right now.

Sam breathes in the comforting mix of leather, gun oil, smoke, peppermint lozenges and cheap motel soap that he associates with his father. The familiar scent that reassures him that his dad is safe and sound and not bleeding out on the side of road somewhere. Wrung out on all fronts from several crappy days, he doesn't care if he is too old for this either.

Despite what John may think, given Sam's earlier condemnations, Sam will someday make John understand that he loves his father deeply, worries for him constantly, and his frequent rebellion against their lifestyle is driven from his desire to want them ALL out before he loses another member of his small family.

John doesn't say a word about the overt demand for cuddling from his usually angry and standoffish child, knowing days like this are numbered, and he obligingly cards his fingers soothingly through Sam's dark hair while they watch some nonsense on TV.

Sam is old enough to handle a man's burden, mature in ways that other teens don't ever have to contemplate, as evidenced by his cool, quick thinking during the accident. But maybe his father is feeling a little guilty over the fact that his boys were forced to abandon their childhoods too soon, so he's not going to say anything about his almost grown son's need for affection.

Dean observes them from the kitchen for a moment, a fond smile on his face. His kid brother is a tough little bastard unless he is overly tired, sick or it's, you know, _fr_ _eaki_ _n'_ _Tuesday_. He's feeling lighter than he has in a few days, grabbing a beer from the fridge and beginning to hum __Rambl__ _ _e__ _ _On__ contentedly as he flips the grilled cheese sandwiches he has on the stove, a genuine smile of happiness on his face.

For now, the little family is back to their version of _normal._

John and Sam are actually both asleep by the time Dean has finished making the late night snack, and he doesn't have the heart to wake either of them. His father can sleep anywhere, in any uncomfortable position, especially with some tequila riding shotgun in his veins, and Sam seems pretty comfortable taking up the lion's share of the couch, although his legs will surely still have cramps in the morning.

As quietly as he can, Dean grabs a couple of spare blankets from the cabinet in the mud room and spreads them over his sleeping family, before he settles himself into the stuffed chair next to the couch. Sure he could go up to his own room and sleep in his comfortable bed after a few rough days on the road, but it's been a while since all the Winchesters slept in the security of the same room together, and Dean's not one to toss away a gift slumber party.

It's the best night's sleep he's had in months.

Another heavy snowstorm during the night gets all the local schools shut down the next day. No one actually needs to be up to go anywhere, however John, even hungover, is an early riser. He already has coffee on and breakfast cooking when his sons start to wake up, and they are soon lured to the table with the aromatic promises of pancakes and bacon.

It's not often that he gets to cook for his boys anymore, and even less often that he can dote on them. When he brings plates over to the table, Dean's pancakes are studded with the chocolate chips he loves, and Sam's stack already has a moat of maple syrup poured around the edges and, for a few moments, they feel like children again.

While they eat they talk about the hunt Dean completed, and John is both complimentary and critical, which is an improvement over the usually just critical debrief, and Dean will happily take it because his father's approval and advice are the particles of oxygen in his lungs.

When they are finished, John quietly but firmly reminds his youngest that they still need to head back upstairs for a while to take care of unfinished business. Sam responds with a respectful _yes sir_ , and none of his usual attitude, getting up to follow his father to the stairs.

Dean's taken a dozen punishments for his brother over the years, always more at ease with being the one under the gun that having to witness his brother's pain. Even as much as Sam has hurt the insecure child inside of Dean to the point where he might think Sam has earned this one, the larger part of Dean, the big brother who has spent his entire life taking care of Sammy, wiping his tears, his nose and his butt, hates to see the kid upset.

He busies himself with the dishes while they head to Sam's room, and turns the volume on the radio near the sink up a little higher than normal because they have a house now, and he no longer has to overhear his brother's distress.

The whole thing is over quickly, and just minutes later John is making his way back down the stairs, as Dean is finishing up the silverware. John's face is a little more grim than he had been at breakfast, his eyes sad and weary, and Dean knows that it's because what has transpired in the last few minutes is the part of fatherhood that his dad really hates. Dad grabs his coat and heads towards the door.

"Going to the store to get the papers. Need anything?"

"No, Sir." Dean shakes his head, and the two share a look of understanding before John heads out. Dad needs a brisk walk and some cool air to get himself together right now.

A few minutes more and he hears Sam's tentative footsteps on the stairs before his little brother joins him in the kitchen, surprised that the kid doesn't want to stay in the privacy of his room. Sam's nose is running a little, his eyes red rimmed and slightly wet. He's subdued and contrite, his gait noticeably stiff as he ambles over to hover in Dean's immediate space.

Dad has apparently made a real impression this morning, and Dean knows from experience that his little brother will be feeling this one for a while. But Sam's not pissy, mouthy or sullen like he usually is after that particular brand of father/son time. He's leaning with his hip against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, and looking _so damn young_ that Dean's heart aches.

He knows without being told that Sam's willingness to go upstairs with their father had nothing to do with his guilt from going to that stupid party.

The mood is too heavy in the room, and Dean feels a desperate need to lighten it before they both sink.

"Need another hug?" The tone is light, playful, and it works, pulling a small smirk from his little brother's sad face.

"Jerk."

Dean grins, but he does give his little brother a quick one armed hug, giving the kid the option of pushing him away or taking the offered comfort, depending on his mood.

Sam hugs back, his chin resting on Dean's shoulder, and before his big brother can protest, he mutters a quiet _sorry_ that makes Dean's gut clench before he gently pushes Sam away, turning him towards the living room and propelling him back towards the couch.

"Bitch."

He pulls the rank of big brother and decides that the two of them are going to spend the rest of the snowy morning watching movies. Bobby had given them an old VCR, and while Sam settles himself back under the blanket and stretches out, Dean grabs a bag from his wandering shopping spree in Lincoln, and pulls out used VHS tapes of _Beastmaster_ and _Beastmaster 2_ , ignoring the grin on Sam's face when he sees the covers. The magic of secondhand shops.

The younger brother knows that he is being indulged with his favorites that normally Dean would never willingly watch, and it cheers him up when he realizes that his brother went out of his way to buy the tapes when things were still bad between them.

When John comes back with his papers, his boys are relaxed and comfortable in front of the TV. Sam curled up under the blanket, and Dean sitting on the floor, his back propped up against the couch just a few inches away from where Sam's head is resting on a pillow.

Dean gives him an out-of-character, slightly challenging look, as if daring him to order them away from the TV for research or training or some other drudging task that usually marks their time together. John's eldest has a lifetime supply of _Loyal and Obedient Son_ chits built up and he's clearly cashing some in today.

Even though he's not too thrilled with Dean's foray into insolence, John doesn't call him on it, nor does he object, for once, the boys taking some personal time. Instead, he goes and grabs research files out of his truck and spreads them out on the kitchen table so he can keep an eye on his boys while he works.

When he takes off his jacket, he reaches into the pocket and pulls out a bag of peanut M&Ms for Dean and bag of Gummy Bears for Sam, tossing them to his kids who catch them easily, and he smiles at their sharp reflexes.

It's enough training for the day, he justifies to himself, and he gets to work.

John Winchester may not win any father of the years awards, but he has always tried to be there for his kids when they really need him.

/

The house smells wonderfully of pine that morning, and Dean grudgingly admits to himself that Sam was right about getting a real tree. Even though picking it out in the two feet of snow at the tree farm had been a monster pain in the ass, it was worth it in the end.

It's a pretty thing, perched in the corner of the living room, and decorated with old fashioned balls and lights that Bobby found packed up in his attic. They've put some lights outside as well, around the windows and the railing for the front porch, because the neighbors decorate, and this year the Winchesters will too.

They're not children anymore, and money can still be a little tight, but there is a decent pile of poorly wrapped presents under the tree. None of them are particularly good at it.

Dean is studying a cookbook, trying to figure out what went wrong with the cinnamon rolls he made this morning that look like gnarled clumps of crusty goop.

"What time is Dad getting here?"

Sam has stepped away from the computer and is now pouring his third cup of coffee and dropping bread slices into the toaster, because those rolls were supposed to be breakfast, not some culinary form of medieval torture.

"Soon. He's just a few minutes out." Dean slams the book shut in defeat and dumps the pan into the trash.

While Sam is putting jelly on his toast, they hear an unfamiliar car pull up to the house, and Dean frowns, going on alert and gesturing to Sam to go and check the window. The younger brother moves quickly and stealthily across the living room and peeks out from the corner of the curtains for a second before relaxing.

"It's Dad. Did something happen to his truck? He's driving this kick ass Camaro."

Sam looks confused, and Dean just shrugs, jerking his head towards the door to get Sam moving. John's not coming inside, so Sam heads out to meet him, his brother hot on his heels.

"Merry Christmas, Dad!" Sam calls out, smiling even as his eyebrows furrow questioningly. "What's with the classic carjacking?"

John is smiling from ear to ear, showing off the dimples that he has passed down to his younger son. Turning to Dean who is also grinning, they share a knowing look as Sam switches his gaze from one to the other.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy." John flips the keys in his hand to his youngest, who catches them easily, still confused until he sees the front grill has a red bow tied to it.

Realization dawns on him and his eyes widen comically, causing peals of laughter from his father and his brother as he throws his arms around his father and hugs him enthusiastically.

"Merry Christmas, little brother," Dean says softly, coming over to join them.

"It was your brother's idea," John say, releasing his youngest. "He's been working on it for months."

Not about to take full credit, Dean reaches over to slap John's back.

"We did it together. Dad's been coming into town just to work on it with me."

Sam turns to hug his brother and holds on tight, amazed that they have done this for him. When they step back from each other, John glances at Dean and gets a quick nod. His firstborn knows what he's about to do. Pulling an envelope from his coat pocket, he hands it over to Sam with a sad wistfulness on his face.

"It's not the same one," he warns, not wanting Sam to get too excited. "But it _is_ identical."

Sam's confusion is back, and he tentatively reaches for the envelope. At his father's prompting, he opens it cautiously and pulls out the contents. As soon as he sees it, his face loses two shades of color and his lower lip begins to tremble.

" _Mom_?"

"She had one exactly like this, Son," John says, as he puts a steadying arm around Sam's shoulders. "God, she _loved_ that car."

Both boys are fighting back tears at this point. The photo of a young Mary and her Mediterranean blue Camaro with white racing stripes takes their collective breath away.

"Where did you get this?" Sam's voice is incredulous as he swallows hard.

"An old friend of your Mom's gave it to me. Your brother and I both thought you should have it to go with the car," John replies quietly. "I'm just sorry it's not the actual one from the picture."

None of them can speak for a moment, too fragile from the flood of memories engulfing them. Dean recovers first, because he has to, and he brushes the wetness from his eyes and claps his hands.

"Alright, that's enough of the caring and sharing. C'mon, man, let's take her for a ride. Wait until you see the inside, Sammy. I swear this girl is _cherry_!"

Sam smiles again, fondly indulgent of his brother's ability to turn his moods on and off. He nods and eagerly heads to the driver's side, clutching the photo in his hand.

They all pile in the car. Sam behind the wheel, grinning like a fool, with John riding shotgun, and Dean folded up in the back. Sam looks at his brother in the rear view mirror and makes a bittersweet observation that this is probably the first time in a decade that Dean has been in the back seat of a car when he wasn't either bleeding out or having sex.

His brother smiles at him and winks, and Sam blushes at the implication that its time he finds a girl for some backseat action of his own.

Sam reverently wedges the photo onto the instrument panel, kissing the fingers of his right hand and gently placing them near his mother's cheek. Under his father's watchful gaze, he starts the powerful engine, and appreciates the throaty purr. Growing up in the Impala has given him a taste for a classic beauty.

They spend almost two hours just driving around until both boys are starving. With Mom's photo in the car with them, it's as close to a family road trip as Sam has ever had. When he pulls into the driveway of the little house, his heart is bursting with love for his family, and he feels the slightest grip on his plans to leave them after graduation start to slip away.

It's as pleasing, as it is frightening.


	9. January 2001

A/N Big Thanks to everyone that reviewed the last chapter! Special thanks to the guest reviewers that I don't get a chance to send PM thank yous to. I appreciate your support and feedback. A little less angst this chapter than the last one ;)

/

Her name is Cherry.

Sam doesn't care if it sounds ridiculous, and he's certainly not going to take any shit about it from the brother who has christened his own car _Baby_.

After spending years mocking Dean's decidedly unhealthy and slightly pornographic boy/car love with the Impala, he realizes that he has been an ass. That there is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with feeling a genuine adoration and territorial protection over something as beautiful as a classic Chevy.

He gets it now, why his brother would sooner lose a finger on his gun hand than let anyone other than his immediate family get behind the wheel of the Impala. Even Sam and John aren't allowed except under the most singular of circumstances.

Parked in the lot at Holy Rosary, Sam squints with beady, distrusting eyes at anyone that attempts to even come near his Camaro without a specific invite, and only a handful of his closest friends are actually permitted the grand privilege of riding in the passenger seats.

 _Technically_ , she belongs to his father.

Sam is still a minor, so the title and registration to her is in John's name, and his dad is the one that carries and pays for the insurance. That's okay with Sam, because the title to the Impala isn't solely in Dean's name either. It's held jointly by John and Dean, and is insured by John as well.

As adult as his big brother is, Dean is still only twenty-one, and when John gave his firstborn the keys, it was with the understanding that legal ownership would be shared until Dean was twenty-five and car insurance wouldn't be a prohibitively unaffordable fortune.

The Winchesters don't have a lot of disposable cash and expenses need to be kept at a minimum, and while their little family bends a lot of laws as part of their family business, the vehicles are _always_ kept clean and perfectly legit. John has been lucky insofar that he's never seen serious enough identity trouble to change that fact.

Regardless of the legalities, Cherry belongs to _Sam_.

She's the first thing of material substance that Sam has ever had of his own. The first time he has a possession of any real value that he is not expected to share with anyone else. Dean may be the benchmark for the overwhelmingly vast majority of Winchester boy firsts, but he didn't have a car at seventeen.

Then again, Dean didn't have a big brother to build him one either, and Sam's heart hurts for everything that his brother never had in life.

Cherry's keys came with Mom's photo, _and that little fact is still blowing Sam's mind_ , and the addition of _House Rules #31 to #36_.

The majority of Sam's Christmas vacation was spent either in the driver's seat with Dad or Dean riding shotgun and giving him excruciatingly detailed lessons on winter road safety, _and considering that Sam was just in an accident he can't really blame them,_ or in the closed bay at Uncle Bobby's garage being dragged through a million drudging instructions in basic automotive repair.

Big brother was determined that Sam be able to handle her no matter what problem arose.

Sam was expected to treat her with respect at all times, maintain her in meticulous condition, and never, _ever_ take any unnecessary risks. Passengers were cleared in advance of any car rides, Dean was the final authority on when, _and if_ , Sam could drive her in less than perfect weather, and both father and brother reserved the right to take her keys from him at their discretion if he wasn't being responsible enough.

Dean would pay to fill her tank once a week, but any other routine expense was Sam's alone.

Sam accepted the restrictions without hesitation, already hopelessly in love with her sleek lines and shiny chrome accessories. The seats that made him feel like a race car driver, and the sportier style that made her look like the Impala's naughty little sister.

While the Impala's purring engine had been the lullaby of his childhood, and could still rock him to sleep faster than a glass of warm milk or whatever emergency pain pill they managed to score, Cherry's sultry growl was pure and unadulterated sin.

He still couldn't believe that his brother, and _especially_ his father, had taken the time to build him a car. It's not that he doesn't know that they love him.

Of course he knows that.

Sam can't explain, even to himself, why such a large gesture on their part is so far out of the realm of their normal that he's still having a hard time wrapping his melon around it. Their family doesn't do big gestures, even for each other. Dad also doesn't waste time he could be hunting by doing massive and time consuming automotive projects.

They are duty and sacrifice. Messy, dangerous hunts and motel room patch jobs. Gruff affection and little brother beat downs. Greasy diner food and vending machines. They do what they do, and _they_ _shut up about it._

He should have known that something was up.

That morning, after John had taken Sam up to his room for their _talk_ , Dad had pulled him into a one armed hug when they were finished while Sam collected himself, because if there was one thing you could say about John Winchester, it was that he was never stingy about giving affection to a punished boy.

If you fucked up, it was guaranteed that Dad would yell until your ears bled and then whip your ass good and proper, but then it was over and forgiven. The brothers were never left with the impression that their father was holding a grudge.

Dad had held him tight, with Sam sniffling into his father's shoulder, deep rumbling whispered words of comfort in his ear. Sam hated how needy he always felt afterwards, no matter how much he had grown. Sore and miserable, and all of five years old, and it wasn't fair that his father's gravelly warm voice could calm the tempest of chaos in his mind, like Sam was still a young child in his arms.

How his father's steady and strong presence never failed to help Sam regain his center of gravity, when his fluctuating range of emotions just had him spinning in a frenzy of confusion and pain. For all of their frequent clashes and heated word conflicts, John's shoulder remained the primary zone of safety and security for his youngest son.

When Sam was calm, Dad had told him that he was grounded for a month, and Sam had accepted it without a word of complaint, even though the duration was unusually excessive.

Still feeling horribly guilty, ready and willing to take whatever got dished out at him, and then some, and then some more besides. After hurting his brother so badly, nothing Dad said or did to him would have been remotely _enough_ in Sam's mind. Not nearly enough to encompass all of the penance he owed for this most egregious of sins.

Later, at dinner, Dad had informed Dean about Sam's restrictions, because big brother would be the one enforcing them, and Dean had uncharacteristically asked their Dad to make it just until Christmas Day, which had only been a little more than two weeks away at the time. Sam had assured his brother that he was okay with it, but Dean simply ignored him.

Dad and Dean seemed to have a wordless conversation between them for a moment, their father's mouth pursed in an irritated frown over his firstborn's insubordinate presumption, but then Dad had finally agreed and backed down, for the first time _ever._

Sam should have known then.

Because Dean would rather take on three wendigos single-handedly, with a lamia chaser, than question Dad's parenting decisions, but he also wouldn't be cruel enough to give Sam a car for Christmas that he wasn't allowed to drive that day either and, apparently, neither was Dad.

Quite a few of the students at Holy Rosary came from well-to-do families, and the student parking lot had its share of glossy, pricey vehicles. That first morning back after vacation, many heads turned with jealousy to see the blue beauty turn in, and the adorably messy haired Sam Winchester behind the wheel.

Clearly, the Winchester brothers not only shared ridiculously good looks, they also shared a fondness for sexy, classic muscle cars, and there might have been more than a little overt swooning going on.

Contrary to Sam's belief at the time, the resulting fallout of that disastrous party did little to affect his overall popularity. Having been a valued member of the soccer team, the friends he had made there didn't desert him out of some peer pressure induced loyalty to Trenton's posse. The entirety of the smart kids clique were offended directly on his behalf as well, and they closed ranks around him, metaphorically sheltering him like a baby bird with a broken wing.

In fact, considering how aggressively Trenton and the football players were trying to shove Kristin's unfaithfulness in his face out of sheer unearned malice, there were more students who sided with the always sweet and helpful Sam over the boorish behavior of jocks that had been generally cruel to anyone they didn't feel worthy of their condescension or notice.

Dean's advice on how to act in school afterwards had been invaluable.

That snowy day they spent together watching movies and mending their brotherhood, Sam had desperately needed reassurances and guidance from the big brother that had helped him navigate through all of the hurts and heartaches in his life.

Soon after the ending credits for _Beastmaster 2_ _,_ Dad had left to borrow a few books from Uncle Bobby and pick up Chinese food for the boys. Once his truck had cleared the driveway, Sam turned off the television and confessed everything about what had happened in the Harris house before he went on the Jack bender, as well as the couple of hard days at Holy Rosary afterwards.

Dean had listened, with mounting concern and wrath, while Sam bared his soul over the betrayal, the tidal wave of anger and pain he had felt afterwards, and the uncertainty he now felt about his friends and his place at school. It hadn't been easy for the terminally shy Sam to talk about it, the shame of his own embarrassment and his general insecurity on display in front of the brother who had always confidently navigated the complexities of teen drama.

Uneasily, he watched as Dean's face vacillated between the soft and adoring look of _It's okay, Sammy._ _Don't you worry._ _Big Brother's gonna fix this_ and the cold blooded killer stare of _I'm gonna rip their fucking lungs out!_

Dean had taken him by the chin, giving Sam his best no nonsense glare.

"You don't _ever_ let them see you bleed, Sammy. _Never_."

Sam knows this. Has always been trained to keep his emotions in check.

"You show 'em that they wounded you? It only gives them satisfaction. You keep your game face on, kiddo. You smile at them with your mouth, and tell them to _fuck_ _off_ with your eyes. You hear me?"

And Sam had stared up at him, with all of the hero worship on his face that he had felt for his big brother since childhood, because Dean was a goof and a jerk sometimes, but he loved Sam and had never steered him wrong.

"Okay, Dean."

Then Dean had smiled. The cocky, sure grin of someone plotting and scheming and _loving it_.

"They'll get theirs, little brother. I promise you."

Dean went on to assure Sam that he had good friends at school. That the kids he played soccer with and studied with, and did a million other after school activities with, were not going to think less of him for getting mixed up with some bullying punks, and that Sam could do better than a faithless girl who easily gave her body instead of her heart.

Then he had brushed his hand over the top of Sam's tousled bedhead, just hard enough that he could claim it wasn't at all girly, even though it _totally_ had been, and without another word, he went into the kitchen.

A few moments later, he returned with a plate containing Sam's favorite childhood comfort food of a peanut butter and banana sandwich. He handed Sam the plate and grabbed the video bag again, rummaging around until he pulled out a tape of _Red Sonja._ He pushed it into the VCR, turned it on, and returned to the couch, lifting Sam's blanketed feet and laying them on his own lap while the movie started.

Sam ate his sandwich, with all of its soft, sugary goodness, and relaxed to the movie, and Dean had spent the next thirty minutes furiously texting.

Of course Dean had been right.

When Sam had gone into school the next day, everything Dean had said was true. He had plastered a smile on his face, taking pains to greet Trenton, Smith and their buddies with a casual indifference. When Kristin had finally summoned up the courage to approach him, he had simply laughed and walked away.

Truly it had made him feel better, especially when he could see their frustration over his lack of reaction.

On the first day of the new semester, Sam had proudly exited from his vehicular beauty, trying to be cool, but hopelessly blushing from the admiring stares. He strode with purpose, a happy lightness in his step, having just enjoyed the best Christmas _ever_ and raring to go with his new classes.

There was an unusually large number of students milling around the hallway when he walked in, and they all seemed to be buzzing about something and throwing looks in his direction which started to make him uneasy.

Feeling self conscious, he headed further into the building and was greeted with the chaotic sight of staff members frantically pulling down photos that seemed to be plastered wall-to-wall on every surface of the main hall.

Someone had pushed one in his hands and his eyes widened in shock when he saw a picture of Kristin and _Smith_ in a _very_ compromising position.

The photos were _everywhere_.

The entire hallway looked like several copy machines had exploded, and there was a cacophony of jeers and catcalls and unabashed laughter as the teachers and support staff ran around like chickens with their heads cut off trying to minimize the damage.

Momentarily stunned, Sam had examined the photo carefully, and found himself feeling a mixture of horror and amusement as he recognized the work of one of Caleb's associates who handled a lot of the forgery and photography needs for hunters. He didn't even want to know how they managed to fake this image.

He schooled his features, not wanting to give any indication that he was somehow complicit in this mess, acting just as surprised as the others. When the students started finding copies hanging in their lockers as well, Sam knew without a doubt that Dean had been responsible for that little detail.

His brother would have wanted to make sure that _everyone_ got a chance to see it.

Sam recalled Dean's less than enthusiastic participation in that morning's five mile run. _No wonder_ he had been exhausted. Sam didn't have a doubt in his mind that his brother was responsible for this. Dean's creativity, especially when getting revenge on someone that hurt Sam, was boundless.

The only questions were how many of their hunter friends had stealthily broken into Sam's school and spent the night redecorating, and exactly how did his brother crack all of the locker combos.

Trenton didn't take kindly to seeing photos of his best friend and recently reunited girlfriend being intimate splashed around the entire school. He also didn't believe Smith's denials either, since the other boy had often made leering advances towards Kristin that he always laughed off as a joke.

Before the first bell even rang, the two of them were beating the snot out of each other in a brawl that ran the length of the main hallway and into one of the science labs where Sam's physics teacher tried to pull them apart and got a broken nose for his trouble.

By the time the hulking boys were pulled apart, they were bruised and bloody and the proud new owners of three conduct marks each for the damage they had wrought, and Kristin had been escorted out of the school in hysterical tears. Sam knew he should feel bad for her, but he was having a hard time drumming up the sympathy.

Later, at home, Sam casually mentioned what had happened to his brother. Dean reacted with minimal interest, his face the politely casual mask he wore when out in the field with Dad on a job. The only word out of his mouth being,

"Huh."

Then he had gone back to assembling a tuna noodle casserole for dinner without mentioning it again. Sam had smiled to himself and let it go, but when he got up to get ready for bed, he leaned in the doorway of the living room while Dean watched TV.

"Thanks."

Dean looked up at him, took a relaxed sip of his beer, and shrugged.

"Don't know what you're talking about. Just sounds like some dicks got what was coming to 'em, s'all."

Then he winked.

Sam laughed, shaking his head, and wished his brother goodnight, but he went to sleep that night with the comforting thought of how Dean always had his back when he needed him.

Kristin didn't come back to school the next day, and when Trenton and Smith were pulled from their last period class for their paddle date in the principal's office, Sam couldn't keep the smirk off of his face.

He wasn't a cruel person, and he didn't take pleasure in the misfortune of others.

But the small part of him that still grimaced when recalling how Dad's belt had striped his ass like an ironically festive Christmas candy cane, and left him cursing the name Jack Daniels every time he had to sit down for a full two days afterwards, was feeling pretty smug at the moment.

/

It was almost a ten hour drive from Jim's place in Blue Earth to the Campbell family compound in Lansing.

As much as John wasn't looking forward to meeting up with unknown members of his Mary's extended family, who were _hunters_ to boot, he knew that it had to be done.

There were too many questions that needed answering. Too many unknown variables that needed solutions, and John was more concerned about the safety of his children than any discomfort he might feel about coming up close and personal with the people that his beloved late wife had wanted nothing to do with at the time of her death.

John had never met Robert Campbell, Samuel's younger brother.

He had been the one that insisted on putting up a gravestone for Mary after her death, against John's wishes. The one on the other end of terse and increasingly belligerent phone calls that had ended with harsh words, insults and threats. Mary's remains were not at rest there. The fire had been supernatural in origin, and there had been absolutely nothing left of her to bury.

Having seen so much death and destruction in his life, John didn't need a place marker for his wife. He carried her in his heart and in his mind every minute of every day. There was no need for an empty plot for him to go and visit her. She never left him.

He wasn't sure what kind of reception he was going to receive.

Once he had learned the truth about Mary's past, he embarked on the new mission of tracking down her relatives, and found that locating them was significantly easier than he anticipated. Almost as if they _wanted_ him to find them, and that little thought got his suspicions and defenses up even more than they already had been.

With each passing mile, he was beginning to feel that it was more and more likely that he was walking directly into a trap.

It's been two weeks since he left the boys and went radio silent. He wanted to be able to tell them where he was, but it was too dangerous to let them in on his findings just yet. As much as they had grown, and as well as he had raised them right and taught them to be strong, they were still so young.

Still boys, not yet full grown into men.

 _God_ , Dean would _kill_ him if John ever said that to his face. Dean, who at almost twenty-two was already two years older than John had been when he returned from the war. Who had been taking on monsters, that would make hardened Marines shit themselves in terror, since he was barely out of puberty.

Didn't matter to John.

As long as John was alive, Dean would be his boy. _His child_. John had trained him, drilled every single skill he could think of into his son since handing Dean his first gun at age six. Had put him in charge of his little brother, and left them alone and scared while their father went out and hunted down anything that could hurt them.

It still didn't mean that his oldest was fully grown. Not in John's mind anyway, and he would continue to put a wall of silence and distance between them to keep his boy from jumping into this fight, as Dean surely would if he knew what John now knew himself. Still protect his kid from throwing himself into a battle that John had no idea yet how to win.

Dean had been expecting his middle of the night exit. Had known that the brief interlude of their holiday was only temporary, even though he said nothing. Simply taking it for what it was, and deriving whatever comfort and enjoyment he could from those few fleeting days of Christmas-y, snowy bucolic afternoons and relaxed, stress-free evenings, when they could just pretend they were a regular family for once.

Just for a little while.

Always on alert, and already sitting up in his bed expectantly, when John made his way into his sons' bedrooms to say goodbye. Dean hadn't questioned it. Never did, good boy that he was. Simply sat in his bed, shoulders stiff and at attention, even in his sleep clothes, moonlight highlighting the smattering of childish freckles on his nose. He took his father's orders and a wad of cash for expenses without a word of reproach for the abrupt departure.

Duty, responsibility and obedience personified, as always, with the barest of pinches in his eyes over the news that John would be out of contact for the indefinite future, and only a warm pat on the shoulder from his father to give him comfort.

It had been hard to leave Sammy too.

John's little boy, now an inch taller than his father, and still growing. Who had been happy and easy going for the first time in years around John. Gone was the moody, rebellious teenager, all spitfire and bucking orders _just because_. Stubborn and argumentative and as big a pain in the ass as John had ever been. In his place was a smiling, easy to please kid.

Joking, laughing and looking at John with adoration he hadn't seen in his youngest son's eyes in over a decade, before a multitude of disappoints, and the crippling loss of faith in his father.

That last night when John had gone into Sam's room, and had to say goodbye to sleep tousled hair, and wide hazel eyes blinking owlishly at him, and wordlessly begging his dad to just _stay._ To not go away this time, leaving them alone and afraid that they may never see him again, and _goddamn it_ , John had wanted to stay. Wanted to smooth his hand over Sammy's floppy curls and lull his boy back to sleep with hopeful, sunny promises of tomorrow, and the next day and the next.

Would have given anything to just stay in that warm cozy house with his boys and put down his sword of vengeance and _fucking be there_ for his kids while they were still young enough to want him around. To start trying to make up for all that they lost and missed out on. Things he was too busy and obsessed and half out of his mind with grief to give them.

He wanted that more than anything.

Didn't mean he still hadn't needed to go.

To climb into his frozen truck in the dark of night, leaving his boys behind, to fend for themselves while their father headed out into the uncertainty of a journey to uncover the secrets of the origin of all the pain and unhappiness and loss in their lives.

How would he ever be able to tell his boys that their mother and her family had been hunters? Could they ever understand that? John couldn't understand it himself, so how would he explain it to his sons?

Tell his children that their entire lives had been built on a lie? That the mother they thought they knew had actually had deep, dark secrets, and that she might have been the one responsible for drawing real evil to their happy home. It was exactly what John had been afraid of all of these years that he was doing himself.

Why he kept his boys moving, hidden and on lock down, because you never knew what might be following you home to your kids, when you lived your life in the shadows, and made enemies of things that didn't understand concepts like decency and mercy. Would not hesitate to gain their revenge on a hunter by taking from him that which he held most dear.

John had spent the last seventeen years feeling like he was one step ahead of disaster. On the edge of a razor sharp knife. Always on the run, looking over his shoulder and gripping a son with each hand as he white knuckled his way through life. An endless maze of possibilities and uncertainties and wild guesses, trying to figure it all out while keeping them safe.

He roused himself from his troubling thoughts long enough to consult his map and confirm that the road veering off to the right in the distance was the one he needed to take. The sun had already set, and the Sierra's headlights were reflecting scattered snowflakes that swirled in the air as he pushed forward. Every minute took him closer, and as they ticked by, he felt his hands tensing on the wheel of the truck.

Soon enough he could make out the sight of the chain link fence that ran the perimeter of the compound. The fence was tall, with a heavy coils of razor sharp barbed wire lining the top, leaving no doubt that visitors were actively discouraged from approaching. The compound itself was huge if the fence was any indication. John counted off nearly half a klick in length before he reached the entry gate.

John had never seen anything like the armed manpower at the entry. Clearly the Campbells were some paranoid twitchy bastards. No less than a dozen men and women all spread around the gate in positions of offensive advantage. Armed to the teeth with a variety of heavy weapons that made the guard posts John had seen in the DMZ look like fucking Sunday tea parties.

He pulled up as near as he dared, hyper aware of the proximity of the Taurus hidden in his lap and the Ruger just peeking out between his coat and his left pants pocket. Safeties off and ready to do business, and John fast enough and talented enough to shoot both simultaneously, straight and true in different directions if the situation called for it.

He lowered the driver's side window, and silently submitted to their tests, as he knew would be required. One of the guards passed him a flask with salted holy water, and John downed it, pushing back the distrust he felt from having to drink something given to him by complete strangers. It went against every grain he had in him.

A dark haired young man, who couldn't be any older than his Dean, proceeded to make a rather enthusiastic cut on John's forearm with a silver knife, and John felt a small twinge of satisfaction when his own superior intimidating glare forced the little asshole to look away. John was tempted for a minute to smack the attitude right off the kid's face, but restrained himself, and when his examiners were finally satisfied, John was waved through.

The main building was actually a series of corrugated metal structures, all haphazardly laid out and welded together. In the background he could hear the barking of penned up dogs and the steady buzz of loud conversations and machinery. He exited his truck, taking as many weapons as he could reasonably hide on his person. Knew that he would most likely be relieved of some, but John was a clever bastard, and they would never find them all without getting a bullet to the head.

John was willing to go on a little faith here, but he hadn't survived this long in the The Life by being stupid.

He was pointed in a general direction, and wasn't surprised to see that everyone was obviously informed of exactly who he was. The entire place gave off a cult vibe, and if this was how the family had always been, it was no wonder that Mary wanted out.

Then he remembered the perfectly normal house that the Campbells lived in in Lawrence, and wondered if there were varying degrees of dedication between the different branches.

As he walked through the first two rooms, there was a general sense of worker bee atmosphere surrounding the various men, women and children gathered around the tables making ammo, melting silver, preparing gallons of holy water and cleaning weapons.

Place looked more decked out with firepower than the entirety of Echo-Two-One.

At the end of the last hallway, he was pointed to a door on the left by a sentry that looked at John like he wanted to slit his throat and had a decidedly unfortunate aversion to personal hygiene. John nodded at him and glared until the man moved out his way, and then headed into the office.

Robert Campbell had to have been close to seventy years old at this point by John's rough estimate, considering that John himself was pushing forty-seven. You couldn't really tell by looking at the older man. He was tall. _Very tall_ , and John had a passing idle thought that maybe it was this branch of Mary's family that was the genetic marker for the rapid growth in his Sammy.

Robert shared his older brother's male pattern baldness, and broad stance, and for someone in advancing years, John wasn't so sure he would want to tangle with the man.

It wasn't much of an office. More like a work shop made of metal shelving, charts and graphs spread out on the makeshift walls. Similar to how John laid out his own research once he was settled somewhere. Typical hunter work space. Robert was finishing up some notations on one of the graphs and he beckoned John closer, holding out a hand in greeting.

"John. It's good to see you."

"Wish I could say the same." John wasn't quite ready to make peace yet, and he kept his hands to his sides.

"Now, don't be like that. There's no need for any antagonism here. We're on the same side."

"Yeah, Somehow I doubt that," John snorted, and shook his head. The memories of those phone calls still bitter in his mind.

"We can help, John," Robert smiled, and attempted to be pleasant. Offering John a seat in front of the desk.

"Yeah? I can help too," John bit out, as he sat. "That kid manning your gate's got a real attitude. Gonna get him killed someday, he's not careful."

Robert chuckled, shaking his head in weary acceptance.

"That's Christian. My cousin Ed's boy. Let's just say that Christian took to some aspects of hunting a little more aggressively than others."

While all this caring and sharing was fun, John wasn't here to shoot the shit with a man he disliked.

"So why do you think I need your help, exactly?"

Robert frowned at the deviation from pleasantries, and John could see the older man struggling to maintain his temper. It took a moment, and then he pasted the kindly grandpa look back on.

"We've been watching you. You and your boys."

Aaannnd, that was _exactly_ the wrong thing to say, rocketing John to his feet and prompting him to pull his Taurus.

"You stay _the fuck_ away from my boys, you hear me? Unless you want my gun up your ass, and not in the fun way, either."

Robert stared at the gun pointed at him and didn't even blink. He shook his head and smiled indulgently, like John was a misbehaving child that required patience.

"I like you, John. It's too bad my brother didn't get to know the real you. He would have liked you too."

"Yeah, it's a real damn shame," John snapped, not lowering his piece. "Why don't we cut the bullshit, and get down to it."

"John, please lower your gun," Robert asked politely, slightly indicating that the younger man look down.

John did, keeping a wary peripheral on Robert, and inwardly swore when he caught sight of the red laser dot aimed directly over his heart. He gritted his teeth and lowered the Taurus as the dot disappeared.

"Now there's that famous charm I've heard so much about," Robert continued conversationally. "Not even a moment of polite conversation between family?"

"You're not family."

"That's where you're wrong. Mary was my niece. And your boys are my brother's grandsons. We are most definitely family."

"This was a mistake," John said quietly, turning around to leave.

"John, don't let that temper of yours get in the way of the information you want," Robert called out to halt his departure. "You know as well as I do that you wouldn't have come here if you had another choice."

John hesitated in the door, took a deep breath, thought about his boys and turned back around.

"Fine. Let's hear it."

When Robert indicated the chair again, John leveled a glare at the man, but he sat down anyway, wondering if he would need the support if what he was going to hear was really that life shattering.

"The day before Samuel died, he called me. The craziest story I ever heard. Mary brought some young hunter home to dinner with her. Had the strangest story."

"And?"

"Said he was hunting a demon. Had a journal full of information on it's victims."

Robert had John at the word _demon_ , but he held his mask of indifference.

"This supposed to impress me? I have journal too."

" _Future_ victims," Robert stressed for emphasis. "Apparently Daddy was psychic. Knew who was gonna deal before it happened."

"A _psychic_ demon hunter," John was now laughing. "Really. Huh. That's funny. I don't remember Samuel being much of a drinker."

"Yeah, I laughed it off too," Robert snapped, losing his battle with civility. "Until the part where my brother and his wife were killed the next day. Wasn't so funny after that."

" _Killed_?" John shook his head in confusion.

"You're a hunter, John. Never occurred to you that a husband and wife dying like that was more than a little suspicious?"

"Not really," he snapped. Painful memories swirling at the surface. "My parents died together."

The tone in the response hit it's mark and Robert's face softened.

"Yes, I forgot. My apologies. But Samuel and Deanna were murdered."

"I thought Samuel had a heart attack?"

"Not many heart attacks are caused by a knife ripping open your guts and making you bleed out," Robert chuckled humorlessly. "And for the record, Deanna's neck was broken, but it wasn't from any fall."

Shaking his head, John felt like he'd just stumbled upon an entire truckload of crazy.

"Did Mary know?"

"Yes, she did. She's the one that called me to come and make the arrangements. We had enough connections to have the deaths ruled accidental."

"So that's why no public funeral," John replied quietly, realization dawning.

"Samuel and Deanna were hunters, John. You know how that goes."

And he did. He really did. His interest was more than piqued now.

"So what about this psychic demon hunter?"

"I don't know what happened to him," Robert responded, eyes troubled. "He disappeared right after Samuel died. We've been looking for someone that would fit his profile for years, but nothing."

John accepted it, having the same problem. "And the demon?"

"That's where it gets even stranger. Samuel said it was there making deals in the towns around Lawrence."

John's face snapped up, alert and insistent. "Crossroads demon?"

"You would think so, but apparently this particular demon had one trait that I hadn't heard of before. Haven't heard of it since, either."

"Oh, yeah. What's that?" he sneered. "He offer a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni with every deal?"

"No, although that's clever," Robert answered sarcastically. "No. His eyes weren't red or black. They were yellow."

"Yellow? What the fuck does that mean?"

Yellow was a new piece on the board. None of his contacts had ever mentioned yellow eyed demons.

"I don't know. We've been trying to track down information for the past twenty-seven years, and no luck. Nothing in the lore anywhere, and no demon we've caught will talk about it."

"So what does this have to do with Mary, or my boys." John was getting tired of the lack of point.

Robert gave him an exasperated look "John. You're a smart man. Do the math. Never occur to you that Mary died _ten_ years after her parents?"

"You're insane," John snapped, jumping back to his feet. "Are you trying to tell me you think Mary, _my_ Mary, made a deal? You're fucking _out of your mind_."

"I don't want to believe it either, John," Robert placated, holding up his hands. "I promise you. I loved Mary like she was my own. The idea of her making a deal turns my blood cold. But the facts add up."

"They do, huh?" John shook his head, temper flaring. "And just exactly what do think she made a deal for? She lost both her parents that day. Don't you think if she was signing up for the hellfire rumba she woulda wanted something for it?"

"I don't know what she would have bargained for," Robert replied plaintively. "I truly don't. Samuel said the demon wasn't gunning for souls, just permission."

"Permission for what?"

"I don't know. Samuel didn't know either. Just permission, whatever that means."

John was feeling a wave of nausea rise up into his throat. He wanted to dismiss this whole insane line of thought, but the hardened hunter in him was screaming at him to look at the facts in front of him.

"And you really think it's possible Mary made one."

"I think it's more than possible. Why else do you think I fought you so hard to have a resting place for her?"

"What good did that do?" John barked. "There wasn't anything left to bury."

Robert took a deep breath and grabbed a water bottle on his desk and swallowed a large gulp. He was feeling very old at the moment.

"Samuel kept a lock of her hair in his journal. I buried that. We're hunters going back generations, John. I know a trick or two," he added, seeing the younger man's disbelief.

"I buried her hair in consecrated ground and did a few rituals. It wouldn't save her from damnation if that was where she was headed, but if this demon wasn't giving tongue for souls, I took a chance that it would help her find peace."

John felt himself falling boneless back into his chair, head aching monstrously as he swallowed a thick lump in his throat that was holding back the crest of bile.

"Thank you for that," he muttered quietly. Sincere.

"Like I said, John. We're family," Robert said gently, seeing the lines of pain on the younger man's face in excruciating detail.

So why didn't you tell me about Mary hunting during those phone calls?"

"She begged me not to," Robert answered simply. "She wanted out, and I respected that. She lost her parents to the life, and I couldn't blame her. I helped her tie up a few loose ends with a hunt here and there, but as far as I knew, she stopped sometime after Dean was born."

And John knew that. Maybe even then, he knew that.

"And after she…?"

"I wasn't going to break my word then either," Robert admitted. "No one saw you becoming a hunter, John. I'll be honest and say flat out that I never saw that one coming."

"Mighta been easier if I'd known what the fuck I was looking for." And there was more than a touch of bitterness in the younger man's voice.

"My brother's baby girl was dead, and the only thing she asked was that you never find out about her past. That her family didn't know the things she'd done."

Robert wasn't going to apologize for his actions, then or now. They were what they were.

"Didn't mean we didn't help. Like I said, we've been watching. Made sure you were steered towards the right connections. Did what we could to clean up some of the messes you made early on."

"What?"

"Think about it, John," Robert said obviously. "Didn't you ever wonder why some of your earliest jobs never got traced back to you? You're a good hunter. Nowadays, probably one of the best in the game. But everyone has to learn the hard way. We just made sure that your rookie mistakes got taken care of."

It was too much. All too much, and John closed his eyes as a tornado of crippling mental blows swirled around his mind. Robert got up from his chair and opened one of the metal filing cabinets and withdrew a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and grabbed two glasses.

There was so much more to tell. He had a feeling that this was going to be a long night.

/

There was a resonating sound of finality that had to have been a product of his overactive imagination as Sam closed the slot of the post office drop box. Now beyond his reach, where his second guesses and nerves could no longer stop their journey, three completed college applications were officially on their way.

In light of his school year detente with his father, arguably fragile, but improving, and the swift rebuilding of close bridges with his brother since their fallout and reunion a few weeks earlier, his resolve to strike out on his own had been wavering rather precariously.

Dad was different these days.

Over the Christmas holiday, Sam had seen a side of his father that the boys had only ever really caught glimpses of before. For one, John hadn't touched a drop of alcohol for the whole week he spent with them. Sam couldn't remember a holiday that hadn't ended with his father wasted and wrecked, snoring a whiskey soaked coma on the couch.

Then there was the complete and total absence of any discussion on hunting.

No messy piles of newspaper clippings and photos and handwritten notes spread over every surface. No stacks of lore books, or orders to Sam to copy notes from their endless, musty pages. No secretive phone calls and tight, pinched stares after them.

It was as if Dad had pressed _pause_ on their usual activities, and it was as wonderful as it was disconcerting.

He talked to Sam about school, surprising both of his sons when disclosing a love for his own math and chemistry classes. Sam told him about how his PE teacher was more than subtly pressuring him to go out for basketball, his increasing height putting visions of school championships in the coach's eyes.

Dad had laughed and advised Sam to forget basketball and wait for spring. That baseball was the real sport, and then he proceeded to talk about how he was the captain of his own team, and the thrill of the game.

While the three of them repainted the living room, Dad had shared stories of renovation projects he had done on the house in Lawrence. How Dean's room originally had beautiful hardwood floors, but then had to be carpeted when John was painting on a ladder behind a closed door, and Mary, heavily pregnant and hormonal, had shoved it open and sent John and two gallons of paint sprawling everywhere.

Memories of his time at boot in San Diego, and the brothers-in-arms he found there. The beach and the warm California sun, and beautiful girls in the throes of the heady days of the sexual revolution.

The boys sat at their father's feet, in rapt fascination of previously untold tales, soaking up every scrap of information like sponges, and filing them away as precious possessions.

They watched spaghetti westerns and old war movies, and argued about who would win in a fight. John Wayne or Clint Eastwood? Dad made popcorn on the stove, and scolded them when they threw kernels at each other, right before he shoved a handful down Dean's back and a clump in Sam's hair.

They had an _honest-to-God_ impromptu snowball fight after coming home from the grocery store, and Dad had made them his kitchen sink stew when the boys started sneezing. On New Year's Eve, he told them fond, wistful stories about their grandmother and step-grandfather. They watched the ball drop on TV, and Dad let Sam have a glass of champagne to celebrate at midnight.

Sam was woken up later that night, when Dad sat on his bed to say goodbye. In the semi-darkness, he looked up at his father's face. Dark, warm eyes that weren't stressed or angry, and a playful smile hidden in the neatly trimmed beard and mustache Dad grew every winter. For the first time in years, his father's imminent departure pained him, and with Dad's place at the kitchen table empty the next morning, the house suddenly felt just a tiny bit less like _home_.

Sam had always had a father, but for the first time, he really felt what it was like to have a _Dad,_ and now that he knew what John was still capable of being, the idea of walking away and leaving that behind was beginning to sour in Sam's mind.

Not that he had changed his decision about fully embracing the life of a hunter.

That wasn't what he wanted, no matter how much he loved his family. By the same token, he was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine a life without them near.

When just a few months earlier, the idea of being on his own, away from the bloody injuries and _pee-your-pants_ terror of The Life, was an intoxicating dream right within his grasp, now the concept of not being around close enough to cover their backs if things went south on a hunt scared him.

Sam found himself more than willing to compromise.

While the family had spent years crisscrossing the country on cases, and the boys were uprooted and moved from town to town with annoying frequency, they did usually stay at least a while in one place at a time because they needed to be in school enough that it didn't raise red flags.

Sam knew that their stays usually frustrated their father, since his focus on the hunt left him a little tunnel visioned on anything that wasn't directly related to it. It was different then. The brothers were children, and while Dad had left them on their own for weeks at a time on occasion, he always returned to them eventually.

Now that Dean was an adult, and Sam getting closer, John didn't need to keep watch. For that matter, Dean didn't need to either. Sam would be eighteen in May. Old enough to be on his own.

 _More than_ old enough.

Sam was going to go to college. Of that much, he was sure, but he was also sure that he wasn't going to go somewhere too far away either.

Since Sam started at Holy Rosary, his father had been taking hunts in the neighboring states so the boys could come and back him up if needed. Sam didn't see a reason why that had to change.

In fact, with his ability to schedule his course load so that he could have more days free during the week, and not just on the weekend, Dad could broaden his hunting radius even further. Even more so, Dad could just go where he wanted at any time, and Sam would be available to help with the ones in his driving range, and he was prepared to drive a lot if he needed to.

Dean could still be with Dad full time. As a legal adult, Sam could live on his own, just like every other college kid. Thanks to the two of them, he had his own wheels, and he could easily travel to them after classes and help out. It was a win-win.

He was even willing to go one step further.

Although he would prefer to go to a prestigious university, and his 4.0 GPA and near perfect SAT and ACT scores would almost surely guarantee that he could, he would settle for a school that made his father comfortable to keep the peace.

With that in mind, he planned on applying to Sioux Falls University and Minnesota State University. They were both smaller schools, and not very elite, but they did have the attraction of being close to Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim.

Minnesota State University was roughly thirty miles from Pastor Jim's place in Blue Earth. Even if Dad wasn't willing to let Sam live on campus, _and he probably wouldn't_ , he could still easily commute from the rectory if he had to.

Sioux Falls University was just a few miles from both the salvage yard and the rented house they were currently living in.

Best case scenario, Sam would persuade his father to let him keep renting the house and he could live there while attending classes. Dad and Dean would still have a base to come back to between hunts. The university was a private school, but Sam knew he could earn enough in scholarships and student loans to swing the tuition, rent and living expenses. The house was already well protected, and Sam was comfortable there.

Worst case scenario, Dad would insist on giving up the house, but Sam could still live with Uncle Bobby. That would be okay too, although the idea of having his own place was attractive to a boy yearning for freedom and independence.

This whole scheme would only work if John felt in control, because that was how their father operated. Sam knew that, no matter what plans he came up with, his dad would need to have the final say-so to keep them from butting heads and ruining any chance of coming through this without bloodshed.

Sam didn't want to actively pick a fight with his dad. Didn't want to wind up in a position where he would have to blatantly disobey him either, and create unnecessary turmoil. There had to be a middle ground somewhere, and Sam was determined to find it. Even if it came at the cost of his own lofty aspirations of the Ivy League.

A lifetime of being told by his brother that life would go smoother if Sam just did as he was told and didn't question their father had never been easy for the youngest Winchester to swallow down. It wasn't in his nature to be blindly obedient and unquestioningly subservient. Sam had always needed answers and reasons behind doing anything, and the fact that John wasn't big on giving either frustrated his younger son to the point of near constant rebellion.

Sam didn't want that relationship with his father anymore.

These past few months as a near civilian had opened Sam's eyes to the realities of normal life that had not ever really occurred to him before. Things like having a house and a life lived aboveboard didn't guarantee instantaneous happiness. That making friends and cultivating relationships could be just as painful as not having the chance to have them in the first place.

That his stern and unyielding father, obsessed and compulsively driven, would still take the time to painstakingly carve sigils for days to ensure Sam's safety, even though he wasn't happy about his boys living in the house where he was doing it. That John would live a little rougher on the road than he already did, just so Sam could go to a nice, safe school that cost money that the family didn't really have.

Or that Dad would drive out of his way to spend a few hours whenever he could to help build a car so that Sam could have something reminiscent of the mother that was too painful for John to talk about.

Then there was Sam's realization that his big brother, despite all of the constant teasing and smacking around that was the absolute purview of older brothers everywhere, loved Sam so much that he gave up the life of a full time hunter, the life that he needed like oxygen, _without even blinking_ , just to give his snot nosed kid brother the chance to be normal for once.

Dean never complained about it. Not even once. Not when Sam was ungrateful and grumpy and unappreciative. When he whined about their training, and early curfews and ridiculous bedtimes, and was pissy about hunting on the weekends instead of doing things with his friends. Making faces at the dinners that Dean would put together for them without the benefit of ever having been shown how to cook by anyone, and figuring it all out on his own, like he always did.

Never mind considering those terrible, awful days last month when Sam had thrown every single sacrifice Dean had made for him back in his big brother's face and then crucified him on a hill of derision and judgment in an unimaginable tirade that would have irrevocably broken lesser bonds of brotherhood.

Only for him to come back to Sam, warm and constant and steady, like nothing had even happened. Offering unconditional love and forgiveness when Sam was unworthy of them, and unable to ever repay even a fraction of what Dean had given him an entire lifetime supply of.

For Dad, and especially for Dean, Sam could temper his own dreams.

It would take him four years to earn his degree. Four years is a long time to prove to his family that he was old enough and capable enough to spread his wings and leave the nest for law school. To put himself in a position where he could help them if there was legal trouble, and earn a legitimate living to help support them to make their journey easier and less dangerous.

He wouldn't be abandoning them. Not really. He would still meet up with them anywhere he could, anytime he could. Still have their backs, and be their research monkey via phone and text message when he couldn't be there in person.

He would defer to his father's orders and obey all his rules, like a good son, and a good soldier, even if they were strict and unreasonable and Sam was legally an adult. Because it would be a compromise between them, and Sam wouldn't rock the boat or pick a fight. Would do what he had to do, to make Dad okay with Sam still being somewhere out of his sight and a worry to distract him.

Sioux Falls University and Minnesota State University weren't sexy, as far as degrees go. They wouldn't open a lot of doors for him with the better law schools, but they would go a long way in making sure that none were closed between Sam and his family either, and that was what was more important.

They both offered degrees in Political Science, which is what Sam wanted, and he would study hard and earn top marks, and then ace his LSAT exam and still get to go wherever he wanted to go from there. It wasn't too much to ask.

That had been the plan anyway.

But then his academic adviser had called Sam into his office during his lunch period one day, and that entire plan, the one that Sam had given so much careful thought to, and made his peace with, flew directly out the door.

Mr. Hopkins had meant well.

The kind of man that took his responsibility in guiding the students under his charge very seriously. He pushed them, and encouraged them, and showed them possibilities that they hadn't even known existed. He fought for them, and championed their efforts and badgered admissions offices and financial aid officers until they were deaf from his aggressiveness and willing to give or do anything to get him to leave them alone.

Sam sat in his well appointed office and quietly endured the disappointment in Mr. Hopkins' voice as he discussed Sam's less than ambitious college selections. Surprised that the boy that worked so hard and lobbied so fiercely for letters of recommendation was planning on settling for schools that just about any senior with average grades could attend.

Mr. Hopkins was an alumnus of Stanford University.

His walls were dotted with finely framed diplomas and achievement awards. Photos of pristine, manicured buildings and grounds all blanketed in the warm sunlight of California. He talked to Sam of the superior caliber of academic offerings, and the impeccable credentials of the professors. The vastness of the library that surpassed any expectation that Sam could possibly dream of.

The tuition was high, but he could get Sam the right interviews for scholarships and need based financial aid. Sam had the qualifications. His application would be put on the right desks, and he could spend four happy years in the heart of top notch education with his expenses covered.

When Sam had balked, and politely shared his reservations about his father's anticipated lack of enthusiasm regarding his youngest son traipsing off to California on his own, Mr. Hopkins had assured the boy that _no_ parent, however overly protective, would be anything less than over the moon with pride if Sam came home with a letter offering him a free ride to one of the best universities in the country.

And Sam had believed him, simply because, deep down, he wanted to.

That was why, as Sam walked away from the post office, there were three envelopes, and not just two.

/

For the past two hours, Dean has been tinkering with the motor for the second hand snow blower he bought off of their next door neighbor. Wrist deep in grease and surrounded by a semi-circle of worn parts, he begins to wonder if he should just chuck the whole thing in the trash and continue to shovel by hand.

But the very real concern over how many hours of his young life have already been spent clearing the four steps to the house, the drive-way, the short path to the sidewalk and, of course, the sidewalk itself, not to mention the landlady's house which is part of their rent, prods him to continue.

Let's face it. They live in freakin' __South Dakota__. It's __winter__.

Enough said.

The various parts are laid out on the coffee table in the living room, mocking him with their stubborn refusal to cooperate in any way. He doesn't understand it. He can put entire cars together from scratch, but a little piece of shit snow blower is driving him out of his mind. Clearly, there is something evil at work here, and for a moment he contemplates sprinkling it with holy water.

He takes another sip of beer, grits his teeth, pushes his sleeves up above his elbows and dives back in.

He absolutely __refuses__ to let the stupid thing get the better of him.

In the kitchen, Sam is standing at the sink finishing the dinner dishes. Dean pauses a minute to smirk at the prissy blue rubber gloves on his brother's hands as he pulls plates from the rinse water and slots them in the dish drainer. He's seen Sam with ghoul guts and ectoplasm on his hands, but apparently his kid brother has a problem with spaghetti sauce and soap.

The sink is on the far wall of the kitchen, meaning that Sam has his back to his brother in the next room, but Dean knows the kid well enough to correctly guess that the boy is wearing his bitch face. The low volume grumbling assures it, even before he hears the distinctive splash of water that heralds the second attempt to scrub the pot that Dean burned the pasta in.

"Temper, temper, Sammy boy," he teases, taking his mind off of the frustration of being bested by a baby motor by poking the bear that is his broody sibling.

"Bite me, Dean."

"And, language, young man," Dean adds for good measure, ducking as Sam, with lightening speed and Winchester ingrained accuracy, whips a sodden towel at him. He balls up the towel and flings it back towards the counter where it intentionally splats next to the sink, never touching his brother.

Sam's formerly irritated hazel eyes relax and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, recognizing the distraction for what it was. He turns back around and resumes the gooey task, a quietly uttered __jerk__ under his breath that is not so silent that it doesn't prompt its verbal twin __bitch__ from the other room.

Dean and Sam have fallen back into their comfortable banter with an easiness that belies all of the hurt and harsh words that had been between them a few weeks ago. In true form, Dean has pushed them way down deep inside, probably to be filed for later consideration the next time he's feeling like shit about something, but for now he's just happy to have them on companionable terms again.

They are brothers after all, and even brothers that are as close as the two of them are bound to fight occasionally. Especially as Sam has inherited more than just his hair color and dimples from their father. He possesses John's temper in spades and also his father's determination to dig in his heels when he thinks he is right.

Fortunately, Dean loves his little brother just as much as he loves their Dad, and nothing either of them ever do will change that fact, or his unconditional willingness to forgive them and always give his all for them. Evidenced by Dean's creative redecoration of Sam's school.

Sam turns around slightly and sneaks a glance into the living room. Dean is quietly sitting on the couch, the guts of the prehistoric mechanical beast still splayed out in every direction. But his brother's face is calm and his eyes are dancing with humor, as if enjoying a private joke. With a surgeon's precision, he picks through the little pieces of metal arranged on the drop cloth, his left knee bopping along in tune with whatever classic rock song is playing in his head at the moment.

Sam lets a little chuckle escape and Dean's mouth smirks a bit more as he reaches for another screwdriver. He doesn't turn his head to meet Sam's stare. Just sits there and tinkers and the younger boy doesn't realize how long he has been watching until Dean speaks.

"That's right, Sammy. Drink in the awesomeness that is me."

Dean snickers cockily, and Sam knows that he is being teased again. He blushes a little at getting caught gawking and is thankfully saved by the tinny ring of the eighties style phone on the wall.

Dean laughs to himself, having just busted his little brother for the peeping tom act. Not that he minds, really. He misses the days when Sammy regularly looked at him like that.

When he was only a tiny thing, Sam watched him with that intense big-eyed wonder, as if Dean was his own personal superhero. Dean remembers the days of strutting around like a peacock, his own little chest puffed out proudly, as his baby brother hung on his every word and gesture. At one point, Dean could have told the little boy that he could lasso the moon for him, and Sammy would have believed him.

If he is honest with himself, he would have to admit how much he is still hurt by the words that his little brother threw at him during that whole debacle last month. But, he has never been particularly honest with anyone except for their father, and then with Sam once the cat was out of the bag about what John really did during his near constant "business trips".

He certainly has never extended the same courtesy with himself.

Especially when life in denial is so much less painful.

So he has fallen back into the comfort of light bantering and teasing with his rapidly growing sibling. His easy acquiescence provides the necessary fuel to keep their relationship humming along smoothly.

He knows that Sammy is sorry, truly sorry for what he said.

The kid had been walking on eggshells around him for weeks, taking extra pains to be helpful around the house, never complaining about Dad's training schedule or extra studies. Never complained about how strict his abbreviated grounding had been, or even the fact that Dean took his allowance away for a month in reparations for the court fine. Most of all, he had been practically tripping over his canoe-sized feet to show appreciation for anything that Dean did for him.

It's clearly overcompensation and they both know it. Dean just wonders if the remorse stems from his brother feeling bad about hurting him or more because a kink in their relationship threatens the borderline _normal_ life that they have created here.

He doesn't allow himself to ponder on that particular distinction for very long.

It wouldn't matter anyway in the end. Regardless of any verbal daggers that Sam has thrown at him, Dean would never think to unbalance the carefully crafted life that he has created for them for these precious few months. He made his little brother a promise and, where his family is concerned, Dean always keeps his promises.

And because Dean is a truly awesome big brother, he even engineered some payback for those little asshats at school who were trying their best to make Sammy's life miserable and publicly humiliate him. Dean wasn't having any of that shit _at all_ , and they had paid for it.

Because no one fucks with Dean Winchester's little brother and gets away with it.

As soon as Sam had given him the full puppy dog eyes and Dean heard the undercurrent of misery in the kid's voice, he had gone to work. Caleb took care of the recruiting details and the whole thing was carried out with military precision.

It wasn't quite as much as Dean wanted to do. If he had his way, both of those little asshole jocks would have found themselves staring down the barrel of Dean's pearl gripped Colt and getting the living shit kicked out of them in new and creative ways.

Dad put a stop to that line of thought really quickly, unfortunately.

That night, after fences were mended, and Sammy was sent to bed, Dad had seen the look in Dean's eyes while they shared a beer.

"Keep your hands off of those boys, Dean." John's eyes are steely, and he's not messing around here.

"C'mon, Dad. You can't tell me that they don't deserve it," Dean points out, as he sips from his bottle.

He can tell from the minute lapse in his dad's disapproving glare that John _does_ _in fact_ think that they deserve it, but admitting to that out loud makes him a bad adult and poor role model. Honestly, if this was a case where they were splitting town in a day or two, John might just be helping Dean shine up a matching pair of brass knuckles to exhibit his displeasure.

"Your brother can handle this himself, kiddo. You don't need to fight all of his battles for him."

"Sammy doesn't have the sheer awesome creativity to come up with revenge, Dad," Dean points out, cocking an eyebrow and grinning widely.

"He'll be fine," Dad assures him, pulling out his journal to make notes. "They're just kids, and you aren't going to lay one finger on them, or you and me are gonna dance, you hear me?"

That makes Dean spit his beer out, and John scowls at the dribbles of saliva mixed with El Sol that now dot the page he was working on.

"Dad," Dean protests, eyes wide. "C'mon. I'm a little old for that, don't you think?"

John grabs a napkin and mops up the mess, leveling a no nonsense glare at his firstborn.

"I think if you start beating up a couple of high school students, I'm going to treat you like one. You copy?"

"Yes, sir. Copy that. Loud and clear," he snaps out smartly, as his ass twinges with repressed memories.

His father has a look on his face that says _Yeah, I'm probably just fucking with you, but do you really want to risk it?_

And no, as a matter of fact, Dean doesn't.

John nods and tries to get back to his notes when Dean clears his throat.

"But, let's say, for argument's sake, that they just happen to experience something unfortunate in a _completely_ non-violent kind of way," he hedges, averting his eyes when his father looks back up. "No harm, no foul, right?"

John hesitates, knowing how bad it is to encourage his oldest when the mood for mischief strikes, but he's still pretty unhappy about what Sammy's been through himself, so he sighs.

"I can't very well bust you for something I don't hear about, now can I?"

"No, sir," Dean replies, smirking behind his beer bottle. "Silence is golden, Dad. We all know that."

Tonight's easy verbal volley with Sam has lifted some of the ache from Dean's chest, his smile, as he fiddles with the motor, is genuine. When the phone rings, his heart stops for just a fraction of a second as it always does with incoming calls. Holding his breath, he hopes that their father is not in trouble somewhere while Dean sits in the warm living room playing happy family.

Only a handful of people have their landline number, which they have because the school requires it, and most of the others are not the kind to call just to shoot the breeze. So he watches as Sammy grabs the handset from the wall and answers it, trying not to detect the minuscule lilt of breathy fear that has also inserted itself in his brother's greeting.

"Hello?"

When he watches Sam become decidedly uncomfortable, he jumps to his feet, but then the kid scowls at him and waves him off, pointing at his own chest to let Dean know that the call is for him and it's not any sort of fresh hell that their damaged family will have to manage.

Dean raises an eyebrow, curious as to the identification of the party on the other end of the line, because everyone they really talk to has their cell numbers. An after school hours caller on the landline is a first.

"Hey Alex. What's up?"

 _ _Alex__?

To the best of Dean's knowledge, they don't know an Alex. No hunter goes by that name and it's not as if they have any third cousins running around to touch base with. He mentally runs the list of boys in Sam's class and falls short there as well.

Curiouser and curiouser.

It's not that Dean is opposed to giving the little twerp any privacy. Hell, he wouldn't have wanted anyone breathing down __his__ neck at that age. He just doesn't like any unknown quantities in their inner circle. He's makes it a point to know who Sam associates with and, with Dad's mandate on the terms of their stay here, Dean takes that responsibility very seriously.

But he decides not to press the issue just yet. There will be time to grill Sam after the call and, stubborn or not, he __will__ talk. Dean sits back down and resumes his tinkering, keeping one ear on the side of the conversation that he can hear. He is already picking through proven methods of interrogating his little brother.

Sam has a particularly sensitive tickle spot below his left ribs and he folds like a cheap suit when big brother unleashes the spider fingers.

"Yeah, I heard about it. I..uh..don't think I'll be able to."

Pause.

"No. I..um..I can't. I...uh..spend time with my Dad then."

Dean throws his brother a quick glance. Sam smolders from the undue amount of eavesdropping and turns slightly, putting his back to his brother even as he starts to wrap himself in the extra long coiled phone cord. Watching the kid's tense bristling, Dean frowns, hoping that whoever this Alex is, they aren't trying to get Sam involved in something stupid or dangerous.

Dean's had enough of that for a while.

A routine interest in his little brother's affairs ratchets itself up a notch and now Dean is determined to get to the bottom of the conversation. Sam doesn't respond well to a machete approach to information gathering, so he plays it cool, leaning back into the couch cushion and casually sipping at his beer.

"Yeah, okay. See you later."

Sam unwinds himself from the phone cord and hangs up, moving back to the sink with a little more speed and determination than he normally exhibits towards finishing his chores. He picks up the discarded Brillo pad and starts to scrub at the burnt pot with a vengeance. Dean stares at him for a second and then downs the rest of the beer. He gets up from the couch and strolls into the kitchen, discarding the empty bottle into the paper carrier on the floor by the trashcan.

Sam works over the pot as if he has never seen anything so interesting, pointedly ignoring his brother standing two feet away from him as Dean opens the refrigerator door and peers inside as if he has all the time in the world.

 _ _Scrub Scrub Scrub__

"Remind me to pick up eggs tomorrow. We're almost out," Dean says casually as he rifles through the shelves.

A short grunt from Sam is the only acknowledgment he gets, the frenzied scraping of the steel wool against metal grating on his nerves. He pulls out another beer and closes the door, flipping the cap off with the edge of his ring and turning to lean back against the counter top as he takes a sip.

 _ _Scrub Scrub Scrub__

"So, who's Alex?"

A pause, lasting just a fraction of a second, betrays Sam's unease over the question, but he pushes past it and renews his efforts with a vengeance.

 _ _Scrub Scrub Scrub__

"Just someone from school."

Dean frowns and shakes his head slightly at the vague answer. Sammy is acting far too nervous over the call for it to have been anything that innocent.

"What did he want?"

Sam turns towards him and scowls. "None of your business, Dean," he snaps.

At Dean's withering glare, he backs down and returns to the pot. Patience wearing thin, Dean waits another half a minute before pushing the issue.

" _Sam_ ," he growls in the voice that their father uses and which leaves no room for debate.

His little brother huffs, clearly annoyed that he has to explain himself, and Dean silently concedes that his father is right in that they have allowed Sam to become a little spoiled. At this point in the conversation with John, Dean would be spilling his guts about every detail of the phone conversation as well as confessing to the size of the porno stash underneath his bed.

Sam's teenager pride demands that he posture a bit more before caving, and he does so until the glare in his big brother's eyes threatens to blind him. He throws the pot back in the sink and crosses him arms, his whole body bristling with attitude.

"The drama club at my school is doing a winter production of _Our Town_. Alex called to ask me if I was going to try out for a part."

Dean raises an eyebrow in surprise. It's such an innocent vanilla answer that he can't help wondering if there is more than Sam is letting on about. A more discomforting question is whether or not the kid is flat out lying to him. Last month's episode is not that far distant in the past that Sam can be taken fully at his word right now.

"That's it?" he asks incredulously and Sam sighs, still affronted, and nods.

Not persuaded, Dean channels John and fixes Sam with a stern look, crossing his own arms and showing his kid brother that he means business.

"So, if I were to go into the school tomorrow, I could ask that cute blond secretary and she would tell me all about this play, right?"

Sam throws him a scowl, his hazel eyes wide and flashing with anger. He rips off the ridiculous gloves and hurls them to the floor before stomping out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Above his head, Dean can hear the kid banging down the hallway and into his room. He is about to follow and verbally flay the little bitch for running off on him when he realizes that there is an absence of Sammy's trademark door slamming.

So he waits.

A minute later, the stomping returns in full force and Sam bangs down the stairs, the ancient boards underneath his feet groaning from the abuse. The boy's face is flushed a deep red and he is oozing hostility out of every pore as he thrusts a lime green sheet of paper into Dean's chest before resuming his crossed arm stance.

Dean grabs the crushed paper and smooths out the wrinkles as he reads. Sure enough it is an announcement of the play and he skims through the information, his eyes resting on the words listing an Alex Logan as the assistant casting director. He feels slightly guilty for having doubted his brother's honesty, but he is still not convinced that he has been told the whole story. Sam's tension and mannerisms are clearly hiding something.

"Okaaaay. So, is this something that you want to do?" he asks, _because, really,_ _he has no other idea as to what he should say here._

"No," Sam snaps, a little too quickly, before turning around and bending to pick up his gloves from the floor.

He puts them back on and returns to the sink to finish cleaning the pot. Dean frowns and clears his throat, wondering what it is that has his brother so on edge about a stupid school play.

"C'mon, Sam. All you little geek boys like putting on costumes and prancing around," he teases, trying to break the tension in the room. "It could be fun. Why don't you think about it?"

Sam's shoulders stiffen as he puts the pot in the dish rack and pulls the plug out of the drain, watching the soapy water whirl around as it empties. He is quiet as he grabs a sponge and mops out the sink before pulling his gloves off and staring out the window in front of him into the darkness of the winter night.

"Sam?" Dean's voice is quiet, concerned.

Sam lets out a heavy breath, his lips pursed into the scowl.

"Forget it," he spits out. "Practices are on the weekends, and Dad said I was home on the weekends unless I'm with you."

Dean's head shoots up and frowns in confusion. "When did he tell you that?"

This piece of information is news to Dean and he wonders why neither of them have mentioned it to him. Dean should have been told if he's going to be expected to enforce it. He fumes, knowing that if John is not careful, Sam will choke on the leash around his neck and struggle that much harder to escape them both.

"When he came in to say goodbye to me before he left."

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean utters quietly, reaching out squeeze his brother's shoulder. "I didn't know."

Sam recognizes the honesty in his brother's tone and words and finally lifts his head up, peeking out at Dean from underneath his shaggy fringe of hair.

"It's okay. It doesn't matter."

Dean grabs his other shoulder and gives the kid a little shake. "Hey. It _does_ matter, Sam. If you want to do this, I'll figure out a way to make it work. Don't worry about it."

Sam just shakes his head sadly, a rueful smile on his face. "Yeah, sure." He pulls away from his brother's grasp.

"I'm not interested, so you don't have to bother." After another few seconds of silence, Sam turns away from his brother's probing stare. "Can I go now? I have homework."

Dean nods and watches as the boy shuffles out of the room. There is more going on here, and he is going to find out what the whole story is. He grabs his beer from the counter and downs it, sad that the comfortable mood of earlier in the evening has just been shattered with one stupid phone call.

/

You're saying that all wrong, you know."

Sam looks up from his Latin book to glare at his brother. Dean is sitting across from him at the small coffeehouse table and reading __Guns and Ammo__.

"You can't even __read__ it, Dean," Sam replies testily, confident in his own language skills and reminding his brother of one of his few failings as a hunter. "How do you know I'm saying it wrong?"

Dean glances up from his magazine and cocks an eyebrow, giving Sam an inpenetrable stare.

"I can read the words just fine, smartass," Dean snaps back. "What's more important, I can pronounce them correctly. An exorcism isn't going to work if you put the emphasis on the wrong syllable of a word."

He pauses to let his reprimand sink it, which it does when Sam scowls and buries his head back into the book.

"Try again."

Sam takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep his temper in check and refrain from popping his brother in the mouth. Because it's mid afternoon, and the coffeehouse is empty, they have taken the opportunity to practice Sam's Latin exorcism skills. Their father called to check on them last night, and he'll be expecting Sam to have completed the practice assignment that was set for him.

Sam would rather just work on his physics homework.

At his brother's insistent prodding, Sam picks the rite up again and struggles through the first few passages that are annoyingly difficult, even with his mastery of the language itself, while Dean listens. He is halfway through when the glass door swings open and a girl's voice calls out to him.

"Hey, Sam!"

The classical language's words stick in his throat and he drops the book like it was on fire, scrunching his eyes up in discomfort as his face flushes a bright red and retrieves it surreptitiously.

 _ _Damn__

The girl's greeting has caught Dean's attention and he watches her bounce in and approach his visibly rattled brother. She's cute, in a wholesome, book smart sort of way. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back in a floppy ponytail that seems to work well with her face and she has enormous ice blue eyes that give Sam's puppy dog orbs a run for their money. Her body is petite, but she apparently has the strength to carry around a bulky stack of report cover boxes fairly easily.

Sam is still blushing furiously, but he manages to lift his head up enough to croak out a quick greeting. Dean has not seen the little geek this uncomfortable in ages.

"Hi."

The girl smiles widely, showing off perfect white teeth, and she deposits her boxes on the table that Sam is working at. Making her way over to his side, she peers over his shoulder and tries to get a glimpse of the book he is hunched over, as he attempts to hide the title.

"So, what are you reading today?"

Sam shifts slightly in his seat, clearing his throat awkwardly. For a minute, Dean thinks that maybe this girl is some over-rambunctious admirer and starts to intercept until he sees a sheepish grin cross his brothers face. He realizes quickly that Sam definitely likes the bubbly brunette and backs off.

"It's um..Latin," Sam answers quietly and even though he is not looking at the girl, his face pleads for understanding.

Fortunately, Dean seems to be right in that she is a female version of his geek boy brother. She squeals and her face is almost stretched to the breaking point by her smile.

"Latin? That is __so__ neat! I'm terrible at languages. I didn't even want to try something that hard. What made you interested?"

Sam shifts in his seat again and throws Dean a nervous look. His big brother shrugs and nods, giving him the go-ahead.

"My Dad is kind of a...um...renaissance man. He insisted on me learning it."

The girl looks clearly impressed and she beams at Sam. "That is so cool. Your Dad sounds awesome."

Out of sheer habit, Sam bristles at the praise of his father and it rankles on Dean's nerves that even now Sam can't be grateful for something that John had taken pains to teach them. Annoyed, he decides that Sam's free pass from humiliation is over with that slight on their dad. He scowls and clears his throat loudly making Sam stiffen, knowing that his brother is now expecting an introduction.

The girl's blue eyes cloud over with irritation, as if Dean is the rudest thing she has ever seen, forgetting that she has thrown her stuff all over the magazine he was reading, and she levels him with a glare until Sam speaks.

"Uh..this is my brother Dean," he says quietly, jerking his chin in his brother's direction. He pauses for a second and forces the next few words out, already knowing what the fallout of them is going to be. "Dean, this is my friend, Alex."

And with those few words, it all comes together.

Dean smirks at his little brother who is desperately trying to hide behind his shaggy fringe. He glances up at Alex, who is now smiling at him since he has been identified as the big brother that Sam is constantly talking about.

"It's nice to meet you Alex," he greets her, in his friendliest voice. The one saved for grandmothers and trusted contacts of John, and not the one he uses when he is making a move on a pretty girl.

For which Sam is truly thankful.

Sam's gratitude isn't long lasting. He watches as Dean cocks his head to the side, as if he is putting puzzle pieces together, and Sam already knows what his brother is going to say before the words even come out of his mouth.

"So, are you the Alex that's working on that play?" Dean's voice is polite and inquisitive and Sam recognizes it as the con man voice that he uses on the job. For her part, Alex perks up even more and she nods enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I am. Actually, that's why I'm here. I saw Sam through the window and I was hoping to get him to change his mind about tryouts on Tuesday."

Sam is now staring down at the floor, hoping that it will miraculously open up and swallow him whole. He hears his brother snicker and steels himself for more embarrassment.

"Really?" Dean raises an eyebrow and gifts Alex with the smile that always gets his way with pretty girls. "What makes you think Sammy boy would be a good actor?"

Alex's perkiness is contagious and she gushes over.

"Oh, well, because when our class read the play in English Lit last month, Sam did a super job with the part of George. It would be so awesome to have him do it up on the stage. Everyone thinks so."

"Everyone?" Dean asks, barely able to keep a straight face, especially when Alex nods with such energy that her ponytail practically bounces off of her head.

He turns to his little brother who seems to be mouthing words to himself and realizes, after a few seconds, that Sam is attempting to exorcise _him_. He is seconds away from losing his composure and busting out laughing, so he turns away from them under the guise of checking phone messages.

Dean listens as Alex continues attempting to persuade Sam to try out. Sam keeps refusing, but Dean knows his little brother and can hear the reluctance in his voice. It's beginning to sound more and more like this play is really something that his little brother would like to do. He stays out of it though, until he hears Sam respond again, this time with a crack in his voice that generally is a precursor to him losing his temper.

"I really can't, Alex. Look, I'd like to, but I have the AP reviews on Tuesdays and my Dad has me doing things on the weekends."

When Dean turns back around, he can see that Alex is not the kind of girl that takes no for an answer. And he is also pretty sure that it is an answer that Sam doesn't really want to give her. He listens while she calls bullshit on the AP studies and reminds him that he can do the reviews during the study hall that she shares with him, and can't help smiling at the way she stands her ground.

"Yeah, well, my Dad still won't let me do it, so it doesn't matter."

Dean hates to hear the defeat in his brother's voice as he makes that admission.

It's true that John will probably be fairly pissed by the idea of Sammy not coming to the meet ups for a while, but Dean is determined that this is the year that Sam gets to do normal things. He still hasn't forgiven his father for confining Sam to the house without talking to him about it. He doesn't expect Dad to confer with him regarding Sam's restrictions, but if he is supposed to enforce them, he would at least like the courtesy of being informed.

He looks over to his brother, ignoring the bouncy girl.

"If you want to do this, Sammy, I'll get Dad to agree to it. I told you that."

Dean's voice is clear and strong and it isn't hard for Sam to believe that his big brother will do exactly what he says he will.

Sam doesn't say anything, but when he lifts his head from the table, he is once again the little boy that thought his brother could lasso the moon and Dean's heart skips a beat with forgotten affection.

Alex squeals again and she grabs her boxes, thanking Dean and telling Sam that she expects to see him at the tryouts. She waves goodbye and bounces out of the coffeehouse, leaving both Winchester boys exhausted from her boundless energy.

"You really like her, don't you?"

Sam mutters a quiet __yeah__ and Dean knows that he will do whatever he has to do to persuade their father to release Sam from their weekend obligations until this play is over.

His brother only has a few more months of normal left, and he's still smarting from the whole Kristin debacle. If the kid is willing to put himself back out there, with a girl that is decidedly more his style, Dean's going to make it happen.

/

Dean is an angry sleeper.

With a gun under his pillow, and an itchy trigger finger, besides.

That's why Sam doesn't even consider trying to get payback for his own rude birthday awakening last May. Holding a plate containing a Swiss Roll with a candle plopped in the middle in one hand, and a peace offering of a mug of hot coffee in the other. He doesn't bother either knocking on the door loudly or quietly sneaking in, simply walking in casually and speaking in a conversational voice.

"Dean, it's your brother. _Don't_ shoot. Everything's okay."

There is an expected half-snore/half grunt from the general direction of his brother's lump in the bed, before the lumps moves, groans and finally pulls itself out from the tangle of blankets.

"Sammy? What's going on?"

Sam snorts and climbs on the bed, balancing the plate and mug as he folds his legs underneath him.

"It's your birthday, jerk. Happy Birthday."

Dean's eyes are bleary, but he smiles, rubbing his face and sitting up straighter. He sees the steaming coffee and holds out his hands like a grubby, needy toddler.

"Gimme."

Sam rolls his eyes and hands it over before using the lighter he liberated from Dean's coat pocket to ignite the single candle in the cake. When it's lit, Sam hands that over too, and Dean smirks before blowing it out.

"Whadja wish for?"

Dean plucks the candle out and splits the cake apart, handing his brother half.

"None of your business, Nosy Nancy. Eat your chocolate."

Sam smirks, but keeps quiet. If his brother wants to share at some point, he will. They don't talk as they eat, and Dean slurps from his cup while Sam fidgets. He waits until his brother is done with the pastry and then pulls the plate away and leaps to his feet.

"Okay, get ready to go."

Confused, Dean looks at his brother, looks outside at the darkness, and then looks at his brother again with a scowl on his face.

"Go _where_? It's ass o'clock. Get back to bed. You have school in a few hours."

Sam's not taking no for an answer and, to prove it, he drags Dean's blankets off the bed, ignoring his sibling's squawk, and lets them crumple to the floor.

" _No_ , we have a six hour drive ahead of us, and we need to get moving. You're gonna call me out with a family emergency when the office opens."

"Six hours?" Dean shakes his head, like he can't believe that his brother is serious, and scrunches his eyes closed. " _Dude._.."

"Don't make me drag you into the shower myself, Dean," Sam yells over his shoulder as he heads out to the hall.

"As if you could, princess," his brother snarks back, but Sam can hear him getting up and moving anyway.

Less than thirty minutes later, they are both showered, dressed and hair gelled. Dean is on his third cup of coffee trying to tamp down on his desire to make himself an only child. He's still annoyed about being pulled from his warm bed when there is nothing actively trying to kill them at the moment, and Sam's insistence on secrecy is getting on his nerves.

When they head out to the driveway, Sam finally stops moving long enough to frown and run a hand through his hair, and Dean's eyes roll in frustration. It's freezing out and his nostril hairs are turning into tiny little icicles.

"What now?"

Letting out a deep sigh, his little brother ponders for a moment and looks between their cars.

"Okay. So, I planned on driving us, because it's your birthday, and I thought that maybe you would want to be the one having your ass chauffeured for a change."

Sam's posturing and honestly perturbed.

"But then I was wondering if it would be more of a gift for you to have some carnal drive time with the Impala. What do you prefer?"

Dean chuckles and thinks for a minute, deciding on whether or not the better fun would be poking Sam with a metaphorical stick.

"I think I would rather be the one driving _your_ car," he says mischievously, getting rewarded with Sam's look of horror as the realization dawns on him.

"Wait. You... _what_?" Dean's little brother is stuttering and freaked, and it's honestly _adorable_.

Dean lets the little brat hyperventilate a minute, and then grins, pulling out the Impala's keys from his coat pocket. He dangles them and motions Sam towards the passenger seat.

"I'm _always_ the driver, Sammy. Just point me in the right direction."

They stop once for gas and coffee. Once for an excessively large bag of greasy breakfast burritos and coffee, and then again just a few miles later _It's my birthday, and I'm a growing boy, Sammy_ for two dozen Boston cream donuts and _more_ coffee.

At this point, Dean has the radio cranked all the way up and he's bopping along in the driver's seat to the caffeinated and sugary buzz and heavy bass like a kindergartner off his Ritalin. Dean's phone rings twice. Once from the school confirming Sam's parental approved absence from classes, and then Dad, wishing his firstborn a happy birthday, with an apology that he wasn't with them, but with promises that he'll see the boys soon.

Even with all of the stops and interruptions, they still make it to Deadwood, South Dakota before ten a.m.

Dean's eyes had lit up like a Christmas tree when he realized where they were headed, and Sam grinned, happy that his brother was pleased with their destination. Dean loves anything and everything about the old west. From cowboys to gold trails to saloons and gambling. He loves it all.

He runs around town like a tween drunk on the Mickey Mouse Magic Kool-Aid at Disney, dragging his little brother along from attraction to attraction. They head to the Old Style Saloon, and watch the re-enactment of Wild Bill Hickok's demise. Spend an hour or so traipsing through the various museums with all of the old paraphernalia that makes Dean's face glow. The hit the Broken Boot Gold Mine tour and pan for gold.

They spend enough time in cemeteries, but Sam's not going to be a killjoy today when Dean pulls out his EMF meter to check for anything hinky at Calamity Jane's resting place at Mount Moriah. Finally, they hit the casinos, because Sam thought ahead and brought his fake ID. No one really bothers to check anyway. Dean's so happy to be in his element that his big shit eating grin has even the faded skinned regulars, that barely see sunlight as they while away their lives on the slots, smiling.

Dean's good humor ups his gaming skills at the poker tables and, even with the house edge, he pulls in a respectable pile of cash. When they head out to take advantage of the advertised _best steak in town,_ Dean pays for the two of them to get plates with slabs of meat as big as Sam's face. The younger brother eyes his meal warily, preferring something not quite so _beefy_ , and has to avert his gaze from his brother's nearly pornographic mastication across the table and lusty grunts of pleasure as he chokes it down.

Although it's Dean's birthday, and Sam has been saving from odd jobs shoveling snow for the neighbors, Sam isn't allowed to pay for anything. Dean assures him that he's just enjoying the day, and Sam is pretty sure that his brother feels a bit guilty about taking Sam's allowance away for a while, even if it was justified.

It's almost five o'clock by the time they get ready to leave. They already have a six hour drive back, and Sam has told his brother that they still have one stop to make before reaching home. A couple of hours into their return trip, Sam directs him off an exit and they ride for a little while longer until they reach the center of a pleasant looking village. It takes a few minutes for Sam to get his bearings enough to figure out the right turn, but when they do, Dean just about has a heart attack behind the wheel.

"Sweet _Mother_ of Mercy!"

 _Molly's Pie Diner_ is a fantastically retro fifties era tube of shiny chrome and neon signs. There are a healthy number of cars in the parking lot, which is always a good sign. Dean jumps out of the Impala and practically hops to the front door in excitement, eyes wide as saucers.

The interior smells _amazing_.

All warm fruits and fresh pastry and deep earthy chocolate, mingled with the sizzle of burgers and fresh cut french fries. There are racks along all of the walls, some refrigerated, with an assortment of pies that fill Dean's beady little eyes with desire. Sam holds in his laughter, and secretly hopes that he doesn't have to pick his brother up from the floor from some sort of embarrassingly reverential supplication, and Dean thanks every deity he can think of for finally guiding him home to the mother ship.

They're shown to a clean booth and place their initial orders after Sam assures the slightly terrified waitress that _no, my brother was only kidding when he asked for one of everything_. Sam loads up on the coffee, because he has a sneaking suspicion that he will be doing some of the drive back after Dean gorges himself into a fruit and whipped cream induced food coma.

One hour, and an absolutely obscene amount of plates later, Dean cheerfully takes the _six_ to-go bags, Sam shaking his head in disbelief, and heads back to the car. Dean has a slightly queasy look on his face as he gets behind the wheel, but he belches and it passes as he starts the ignition.

"Dude, how did you find this place? Fucking _awesome_."

"It's called the internet, Dean," Sam answers, smiling fondly as the head back towards the highway.

It's almost two in the morning when they finally get home. To Sam's surprise, his brother managed to drive the entire way, pie busting belly and all.

"We are so not running in three hours," Dean mutters as he trudges up the stairs.

"That's okay with me," Sam laughs, rubbing his eyes and looking forward to his soft bed.

They cart the bags of souvenirs and pies into the kitchen and Sam shrugs when Dean throws him a questioning look about where they are going to store all of the pastry. The fridge is neither empty nor exceptionally large.

Sam stops his brother before they head upstairs, grabbing a slim, square shaped, poorly wrapped package from the computer alcove and handing it to Dean.

"Here. This is your real gift."

Dean takes it, a small grin peeking around the corners of his mouth, because it's pretty obvious what it is. When he does get the wrapping paper off, his eyes go huge, because he wasn't expecting _this_.

For Christmas, one of Dad's gifts to Dean had been a turntable. Because while Sam and the rest of the civilized world live in an age of CDs, Dad and Dean are firmly stuck in the seventies, and Sam's brother loves him some classic vinyl. Dean's eyes scan over the pristine album cover of the debut _Led Zeppelin_ and, for a second, Sam wonders if big brother is about to weep from joy.

"Sammy," Dean stutters, voice heavy with emotion. "Where did you get this?"

Sam laughs softly, not because he wants to make fun of his brother, but because Dean's happiness makes Sam happy too.

"Dude. _In-ter-net._ "

Fortunately, Dean laughs as well, and he puts the album on the kitchen table next to the pies and holds his arms out.

"C'mere, kiddo."

Sam goes willingly into his brother's hug, and he returns it with equal affection.

"Thanks, Sammy. I love it." _And you_

"Yeah, don't mention it." _Love you too, big brother_


	10. February 2001

This was, without a doubt, the _dumbest_ idea Sam had ever had.

Not that Dean hadn't done some spectacularly dumb things in his time. Sam's big brother would be the first to admit it.

Take that incident two years ago, for example.

The Winchesters were outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana with Caleb, cleaning up a job at a haunted abandoned prison. It had been an absolute mess. For some stupid reason, people liked to think the mysterious deaths happening there made it a prime place for a tourist attraction. John had shaken his head in disbelief because more often that not civilians were just _that stupid._

Even as he salted and burned the bones, Dad had still been muttering something about _If ever there was a time to implement Darwinism…_

It had taken all four of them, armed to the teeth and fighting anything that shimmered, before all the tortured dead convicts were laid to rest. Dean and Caleb were bouncing on the balls of their feet from a wave of sheer adrenaline, pumped and ready to go again. The fires in the boneyard behind the prison still radiating an inferno of heat, when John's phone rang.

It was Martin, calling for assistance with a banshee in Orlando. John and Martin went way back. Had saved each others lives over and over again, and John didn't even hesitate a second before promising to be on his way in thirty. Caleb was happy to join them, as he had business in Miami with his munitions expert based there.

It was February, and Sam was off from school for winter break. He and his brother had been at each others throats for days. Sam seemed to be the only kid in his class that wasn't going on some sort of fun trip for the holiday, and he really didn't appreciate the jovial observation from Dean that they _were_ on a trip of their own.

The younger brother apparently wasn't counting a multiple murder scene jailhouse cleansing as a good time.

For the two days the job had taken in Fort Wayne, Dean and Sam had been snapping at each other almost every single minute, and the friction had escalated to the point that John's teeth were set on edge. Caleb was a sort of honorary big brother to both of the Winchester boys and Sam, being fifteen and moody, might have been feeling both a little jealous and a little left out by all of the time Caleb and Dean were spending together.

Sam wasn't used to sharing his big brother and, at that particular moment in time, he wasn't shy about expressing his unhappiness, hence the increase in overall snotty behavior that was trying his father's patience. When both boys were in the Impala with their dad, they were bickering constantly, until John, at wits end, told Dean to ride with Caleb, and that just set Sam off even more.

John's firstborn could take a lot of crap from his little brother and let it go, like water off of a duck's back, but their father could see that the older boy was at his limit of patience. Dean was an energetic young man, and he asked for very little for himself. Certainly less than most twenty year olds wanted to have. It was unfair of John to expect him to take a litany of abuse from his little brother without an occasion reward.

The family had been in Florida a couple of years earlier. Sam had begged and pleaded with his father to take them to Busch Gardens for the great roller coasters they had there and the variety of wildlife that wasn't the kind that the family hunted. John refused when he caught a case in Alabama, and his youngest had sulked in the back of the car for the entire trip. That kind of behavior didn't win you any points when your father was John Winchester, and Sam found himself running laps around their motel for days afterwards.

Seeing an opportunity to broker peace here, John told his sons that they were headed down to Orlando, and then promised Sam that if he behaved himself and did the banshee job without complaint or any backtalk, they would stop in Tampa on their way back north. Dad was pretty good about taking the boys for fun outings after a job if they had the time and cash, but he didn't generally offer a treat when a fuss had been made over it once already, and this was uncharted territory.

Thrumming with excitement, and happy for the first time since vacation started, Sam swore up and down that he would be as good as gold and work his ass off, and was already cleaning up the site and packing in half a heartbeat.

Dean was the only one looking down in the mouth, and his father knew it was because his firstborn wasn't looking forward to spending more time in the car with his little brother. It was a fifteen plus hour trip to Orlando, and Dean would be expected to help John drive so they could get there as quickly as possible.

John could see it in his son's eyes. He wasn't blind to all of the sniping going on, and Dean never complained. He gave as good as he got, but he was never really mean to his little brother, and often would wind up doing whatever was needed to get Sam to stop with the attitude. After days of Sam's moodiness, Dean deserved a break.

It wasn't hard to arrange for John and Sam to join Caleb in his Jeep for the trip and let Dean take the Impala by himself. They weren't all needed for the hunt. The older brother could have some personal time and then meet them in Tampa for a day of fun at the theme park. John gave Dean the car keys, some cash and strict instructions to meet them in five days.

Five states in five days.

A boy could get into a lot of trouble with that kind of time and distance on his hands.

The smile on Dean's face had been a mile wide, thoughts of fun nights with pretty girls and no little brother to care for dancing through his head. Sam was already giddy with the idea of a fun vacation activity and spending time around Caleb without Dean, and then Dean put the cherry on the sundae by promising Sam that he would go on every ride with him.

 _Twice_.

Dean had never told Sam what he did for most of that time, but Sam knew that his brother had made it to Tampa a day early when he called Dad to let him know the room number of the motel he had checked into.

What Sam _did_ know was that Dean had gone to a biker bar the night he arrived, gotten completely hammered and hit on a waitress named Darla, with a hot body that more than made up for her lack of mental acuity. Somehow they managed to score a few joints that, unbeknownst to Dean, turned out to be laced with something that he still, to this day, had no idea what it was.

The next thing he knew there were a ton of people and a wire hair fox terrier puppy in the car with him, and they were headed back to Dean's motel room to party.

When Dad and Sam arrived at the motel the next day, Dean wasn't answering the door, so Dad turned it into a lock picking lesson for his younger son. Dean was still passed out when they found him inside.

Spread eagle, naked and tied to the bed, with a bra gag in his mouth. The room was trashed, furniture tipped over and broken. Empty beer and liquor bottles littering every surface. Whoever was with him the night before had taken Dean's cash, his cellphone and his favorite knife, and left him with a spotty memory, the mother of all hangovers and a raging case of chlamydia.

Dad had been in a blind panic until he finally got Dean to wake up. Then Dad had _raged_. Sam was sent outside to wait in the Impala, and he would have happily stayed out there if the interior of the car wasn't covered in dog fur and pee, with the remnants of some of Dad's favorite cassette tapes strewn all over the seats.

Sam had contemplated keeping quiet, but finally came to the conclusion that it would ultimately be better for his brother to let Dad scream for everything at one time instead of holding back and allowing an opening for an _Ass Chewing Part II_. So he braved his father's wrath and peeked in the door, where Dean was sitting slumped on the bed covered with a sheet, and Dad's face had worked itself up from red to magenta.

At his youngest son's prompting, John had taken a quick look at the car, and Sam watched his face go all the way to purple as he slammed back into the motel room, rocking the door on its hinges in his wake.

Sam didn't know exactly what his father said to Dean, but when John came out of the room fifteen minutes later, he strode over to where Sam was sitting on the Impala's hood, pointed an irate finger at him and yelled.

 _"The rules are simple, Sam. You don't take a joint from a guy named Don and there's no dogs in the car!"_

And Sam had blinked and _yes, sir'd_ , and was too scared to remind his father that Sam hadn't done anything to get yelled at for. It didn't seem to matter to John at that particular moment.

Dad made Dean get dressed and painstakingly detail the Impala for over two hours. Sam wasn't allowed to help, so he watched from the motel room window as his big brother, pale, sweating and nauseous, scrubbed every inch of the car with their father standing sentry off to the side, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

They did make it to Busch Gardens that day, just before noon. True to his word, Dean dutifully accompanied Sam on the rides, but Sam could see how green around the gills his brother was, suffering in silence like a martyr and feeling guilty as hell.

After just a few spins on the coasters, Sam declared that he was done, and that he wanted to concentrate on the other attractions instead, but Dad was insistent, and he actually made the boys keep riding, reminding Dean that his poor choices weren't going to ruin his little brother's day.

Dean was clearly miserable, but he racked his shoulders back and did as he was told, as always. The pain in Dean's eyes was crippling, and Sam couldn't enjoy another minute knowing that his brother was feeling like shit. Dean spent the rest of the visit pushing Sam towards every ride, barely able to stand upright and struggling to choke back his own vomit.

Even though Dad had kept his word about taking Sam to the theme park he had begged to go to, and Dean had brought his trouble upon himself, Sam hated his father that day.

That trip had been a pinnacle of dumb things to do in the world of the Winchester brothers, and as Sam pressed on the gas of his Camaro and roared towards the snow capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains, he already knew that he was about to outdo his brother on the dumb idea scale.

/

Dean sat on the recently recovered sofa, tiredly nursing a beer. His whole body ached. Bobby had him working on an engine rebuild all day and it was just being a complete bitch. The weather had been that kind of cold and damp gray pall that just sucked the energy right out of you. He would have preferred snow. At least snow didn't make his muscles stiff.

Not that he was complaining about his job. Bobby had been damn good to them since the move.

He was idly watching the new television set that was showing a decade old segment of __This Old House__. Bob Vila was giving careful instruction on grouting tile with far too much enthusiasm in Dean's opinion.

Normally, he wouldn't give crap like this the time of day, but the first floor half bathroom in the rented house still looked like hell, worse than most of the run down motel rooms that he had lived in over the years. Except for the few projects that Dad had helped him with, Dean didn't know jack about home improvement.

His father would be by to visit in a couple of weeks and, depending on his mood, which wasn't actually very charitable towards his firstborn at the moment, might or might not be willing to lend a hand. Whatever John didn't agree to, Dean would figure it out for himself.

Not that they really had the money for renovations on a house that wasn't even theirs, but Dean was putting some aside every week just the same. The longer they stayed, the more attached Dean found himself becoming and he often caught himself planning for the long haul.

Realistically, he knew it should only be temporary. Sammy would be done with school in June, and then it would be back out onto the road with their dad. However, until that time, Dean didn't want his kid brother ashamed of bringing home the select few friends that he had made.

Sammy's study group had been meeting at their house once every other week, in rotation with the homes of the other members. Although it would have been nice to have a working bathroom on the first floor, the brothers just kept the door shut during the study sessions and directed the kids upstairs to the big bathroom that the two bedrooms shared.

It was an easy solution when the group had been just starting out and small.

After Dad grounded Sam in the wake of the infamous party incident, Dean had been pleased to hear that his little brother's study buddies were more than happy to just hold all of their review sessions at the Winchester house, instead of trading off, since Sam was on lock down. Quite frankly, it was what Dean had wanted all along, and he was especially happy when the decision was made without him suggesting it, because Sam could still be a bit _touchy_.

Not just because Dean would prefer the kid stay where big brother could keep a close eye on him, but also because it showed Sam that he really did have some good friends. Ones who would prefer to change their plans around to accommodate him, so that he could still spend time with them, instead of leaving him out in the cold.

As a result, Dean had really been going the extra mile to make them all feel as comfortable as possible.

For a house kept by two young men, it was very tidy. Dad was a stickler about neatness, his military mind demanding organization, and he hated clutter. The brothers split the chores for housekeeping, and floors were mopped regularly and dirty dishes didn't sit in the sink.

The kitchen was Dean's domain for the most part, except for the dinner dishes. He also had all the household laundry going near constantly, and the whole place usually smelled of clean linen and perfumed dryer sheets unless dinner was burning. Sam bitched when he was assigned the chore of cleaning the upstairs bathroom, but his meticulous nature kept all of the surfaces shining regardless.

Over time, Dean had been steadily adding to their mismatched collection of furniture odds and ends.

An end table in the living room, between the couch and stuffed chair, with a lamp that gave a softer lighting than the harsh florescent overheard. A dark wood entertainment center for the upgraded television, replacing the old set borrowed from Bobby and the cart on wheels it had sat upon.

There were framed photos on the walls of the brothers and their parents. Some new, like the ones taken at Christmas and Sam's senior photo from Holy Rosary. Some borrowed from their father's limited collection, copied and enlarged. The living room also had a bookcase, reasonably similar enough to the entertainment center, but not quite exact. Sam was busy filling its shelves, and Dean made sure that he had the means to do so.

The kitchen was newly repainted, and the small table and battered chairs had been relocated down to John's work area in the basement, and then replaced with a bigger farmhouse table Bobby got off a neighbor that was retiring to Florida. It came with a long bench for one side and six chairs for the other three. Large enough for Sam's study group to gather around in the evening.

For someone that had only vague memories of a home, Dean proved to be rather adept at artfully arranging framed prints that they bought cheap for the kitchen walls. There were even a few plants scattered here and there. Dean liked them for the homey atmosphere they gave off, and Dad liked them because they were all herbs that could be used for spell work.

It was a cozy place to gather.

Dean took it one step further, and started encouraging Sam to invite his friends for dinner before their reviews. Their food budget wasn't limitless, but it was decent enough, especially as Sam was growing again.

Pasta was cheap, and Dean would put together huge bowls of it, trying out different sauces and adding another big bowl of salad and the garlic toast Dad showed him how to make. Sometimes it would be a stock pot of chili, with shredded cheese and buttery slabs of cornbread on the side. The kids were even happy with tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

It was informal and messy. Loud with laughter and friendship.

As word got around, the size of the group increased from eight to thirteen. Sam squinted at his brother apologetically when the kitchen got more crowded, and Dean just smiled, shrugged, and added another box of pasta to the boiling pot of holy water.

With so many kids in the house, the additional bathroom was becoming a necessity, since no one was allowed in John's living/work space in the basement for obvious reasons. Which is why Dean was suddenly concerned with grout.

Over the low volume of the television, Dean could hear the start of his brother's wet cough beginning again, the sound drifting down from Sam's bedroom upstairs. Checking his watch, he noticed that it was almost time for another dose of the prescription cough medicine that they had picked up after their Monday night visit to the local Urgent Care clinic. He had already had his evening antibiotic.

This was the second time that Sam had been ill with the flu since they moved to Sioux Falls. Dean's little brother was generally pretty healthy, and that was saying something considering some of the more skeevy places they were forced to stay on occasion.

The fact that the kid was living in the cleanest environment they had called home since Lawrence, and going to a posh school where even a sniffle was treated with top notch medical care, and he _still_ kept getting sick, was stressing Dean out.

Inwardly, Dean had been really proud of the fact that he could pay for his brother's doctor visit himself instead of relying on the phony insurance cards that their father had pressed into his hands back in August. With them settled in town, Sam didn't need to worry about not getting medical treatment because his insured last name was _Daltry_.

Pushing himself up from the couch, he climbed the stairs and gave Sammy's door a brief knock before coming in.

Sam was bundled in his bed, books and papers piled around him in what appeared to be an unsuccessful attempt to study. Dean frowned when he saw them, having specifically told his cranky little brother to get some sleep when he sent him to bed after Sam was too feverish and snotty to choke down a little of the tomato rice soup Dean had made for him.

He lifted an eyebrow in annoyance, earning himself a flushed face scowl in return, Sam looking all of six years old pouting under the blankets. Stubborn brat was always a monumental pain in the ass when he was under the weather.

Unless Dad was home, of course. Then it was all glassy eyes and clingy arms and instant compliance to Dad's orders. It was the only time Sam didn't fight with their father, and guaranteed that he would start one with his big brother.

Too exhausted to debate the lack of adherence to the previous command to rest, the older brother refrained from making any comment that might provoke a battle. Neither one of them had the energy at this point as Sam hadn't been sleeping well, and when Sammy didn't sleep well, Dean didn't either.

Shaking his head in irritation, he grabbed the bottle of cough syrup from the bathroom next door and refilled the small measuring cap, carrying it back into Sam's room and handing it to his little brother silently. Sam kept the scowl firmly in place as he reached for it, knocking it back like a shot of whiskey that somehow made him feel less childlike than just obediently taking his medicine like a good little boy.

The silent battle of wills continued after Dean washed the cap off and replaced it. Giving his little brother a _don't mess with me_ look, he proceeded to clear all of the study material from Sam's bed, daring the congested kid to say something about it. For all of his bravado, Sam didn't have the energy to argue either, especially since he could already feel the wave of drowsiness that the medication induced coming over him.

Covering a cough with his hand, he turned over onto his side and burrowed into his pillow, his eyes already shut tightly in exhaustion. Dean reached out a hand, pushing aside the slightly damp bangs as he pressed the back of his fingers to Sam's forehead. Even with his eyes closed, Sam still managed a fairly decent bitch face, surprisingly his only outward sign of indignation at the prospect of his big brother going all mother hen on him, the large rough hand gentle as it searched for an increase in fever.

Satisfied that Sam's forehead was hovering in a normal range all things considered, Dean pulled away and straightened back up.

"Get some sleep, Sammy," he insisted, his voice quiet but firm. "I mean it, kiddo. I come back in here and find books on your bed again, I'll be throwing them in the wood stove to help with the heating costs. Got it?"

"We don't have a wood stove," Sam grumped, choking back another coughing fit into his pillow.

"I'll _buy_ one," Dean snapped, frowning as he switched the light off. "You hear me?"

Sam managed a small grunt of assent, not too tired to flip his brother off as he slipped back into a heavy slumber. Dean watched him for a minute to reassure himself that his kid brother was breathing as steadily as could be expected before soundlessly padding out of the room and heading back downstairs.

Flopping back down on the couch, Dean watched the credits of the show roll and cursed, half annoyed that he had missed the final part of the segment.

 _Oh, well_

He would just have to figure the rest out for himself. Luckily for him, he had always managed to pick up stuff like that fairly easily. He might not have Sam's freaky almost photographic memory, but he did just fine for himself, _thank you very much_.

Sam had been feeling a little rundown most of last week, and Dean wasn't surprised that the kid was wiped out considering how many extracurricular activities he was involved in. It seemed like Sammy was always on the go from this club to that club to this practice for something.

While Dean worried about his little brother wearing himself down, he was also pleased with the fact that Sam was making the most of his year at his school. Finally able to join whatever he wanted and getting it all out of his system, so that when they had to go back on the road again, there wouldn't be any regrets of _if only_ and _I wish I had_ lingering in his little brother's mind.

No matter what the future brought them, Sam would always have this year to look back on and have good memories of a normal life.

It was the least Dean could do for him. The road ahead was rough and bumpy and dangerous, and while he would do everything he could to protect the kid, they were hunters first and foremost, and they had an obligation to do whatever they could to protect and save people who were in the dark about the real things in life that could hurt them.

The chest congestion hadn't really made itself known until his Saturday evening performance of _Our Town_. It hadn't been easy to convince their father to let Sam skip out on their weekend meets so he could do the show, once John came back into the area from his mysterious trip.

With Dean backing him up, Sam went to the play tryouts that Tuesday after the little brunette cornered them at the coffeehouse. Alex's bouncy enthusiasm dragged him down the hallway at school towards the theater where the other students were milling around to read for parts. After two hours of readings, Sam had walked away with the part of George Gibbs and, to his complete surprise, Alex was cast as Emily Webb.

The theater kids clique was small and incestuous and, apparently, her assistant casting director position did not disqualify her from being awarded the female lead. Dean had smiled when he heard the news, knowing without needing to be told that this had been the reason behind her full court press regarding Sam's participation.

Sammy was a Winchester. Of course the chicks would be chasing him, the big brother thought fondly.

Dad had come to stay with them for a couple of days later that week, looking well and truly wrecked. The boys had seen the aftereffects of bad hunts before, but these latest secretive trips of their father's seemed to be worse than ever. Leaving Dean concerned for his dad's mental state and, as usual, John wasn't giving any information on his whereabouts for the past month. It was always frustrating for both boys, but this had been the first time that Dean was even more perturbed than his little brother normally was.

As far as he knew, Dad hadn't been on any of the usual brand of hunts.

John would have shared his information if he had been, because it was always important for the boys to understand what he had run up against and also how to take it down in case they had to deal with it in the future. The fact that Dad wasn't saying anything _at all_ was what really got under his firstborn's skin, and no amount of persuasion was successful in getting their father to open up about where or how he had spent his time away from them.

Frustrated and worried, but knowing he wasn't getting answers, Dean waited until Sammy was in bed before he managed to summon up the nerve to ask their father why his little brother was put on lock down during John's absence and why Dean wasn't informed.

His father had looked at him a little strangely, confusion clouding his eyes for a second, before he shook his head in irritation and told Dean that it should have been understood if they weren't with him.

That was certainly _not_ the standard protocol and, for a moment, Dean was going to remind his father of that, but considering the man's current state of mental agitation, he decided against it.

After all of those hours going over the rules at the start of the school year, the mandatory activities of the brothers were laid out in no uncertain terms. Dean didn't know what had changed in his father's mind to deviate from those terms, but he also knew his chances were slim to none about getting any real straight truth about that at the moment. He pushed his raising ire aside and changed the subject for both of their sakes.

Instead, he had gingerly broached the subject of Sam's desire to do the play, and his accomplishment of getting cast in the lead role. As expected, their father had dismissed the idea outright, the irritation on his face getting significantly more noticeable, as if he couldn't believe the brazen impudence of his firstborn to even suggest such a thing.

Dean loved his father, and respected him above everything else in his life. He willingly did anything asked of him and never questioned or complained, because he took pride in being a good son. There was a time, in the not so recent past, when he would have _yes sir, sorry sir'd_ his father and tucked his tail between his legs and told his little brother that he would have to quit the show after all.

 _Not this time._

For all of the love and respect he had for John, he had made his brother a promise, and Dean intended to keep it. There simply was _no_ good reason why Sam couldn't be allowed to have this, and since his father didn't seen inclined to provide one, Dean couldn't help feeling that it was unreasonable and unnecessary to deny his little brother.

What Sam wanted wasn't dangerous and it wasn't illegal. The practices and the performance were held on school grounds where it was safe.

Dean pointed out to his father that if there was a hunt that John needed back up for, Sam could stay at Bobby's place, like John himself had allowed so many times over the years, and Dean would more than willingly be by his father's side, as always.

Dean's entire life, he had accepted his father's commands like gospel. It would never even have occurred to him to shirk an order, or question it. Maybe it was because he was getting older, or because he was feeling a bit of more freedom of his own. Maybe it was because his father's behavior over the last few months had changed in more ways that one.

Some good, some downright _scary_.

Whatever it was, Dean wasn't the same _snap to_ soldier he had been in August. He felt somewhat bad about that, because that had never been his intention when suggesting this break in the family business, but he couldn't help the way he felt now. Their time in the little house, less on the hunt and more in the civilian world, had changed Dean in small and subtle ways. Reawakening a small hidden desire for a little more stability in his own life that he hadn't let himself feel since his time with Sonny.

John was always going to be his father, and the man he looked to for guidance and orders out in the field, and sometimes in life too, but Dean was no longer the boy that would accept commandments without question, and it was going to take more than just John saying _because I said so_ now.

Didn't mean Dean wasn't going to still feel guilty about that.

Without being disrespectful, because he genuinely didn't want to be, Dean finally convinced his father to allow Sam to perform, after promising to find a way that Dean himself could be present during the practices. It wasn't an ideal compromise, especially since Sam already felt claustrophobic, but it was going to have to be enough.

Deep down, Dean could feel his father's disappointment in his oldest son's new tone and demeanor. That knowledge disturbed him all the way down to a cellular level, because part of what made Dean who he was, was the loyal and obedient son he had been all of his life. It was hard for him to admit that he was becoming someone he never foresaw himself evolving into.

He also admitted to himself that things may have been different if John had been the least bit forthcoming about the hunt that had changed everything so radically, and given his boys even a tiny scrap of information about what he had been doing when he dropped off the face of the Earth for almost a month.

Dean was no longer a child, and it was getting harder to take things on faith.

They were used to him being gone, but Dean knew something big was brewing, and the fact that his father didn't seem to trust him enough to confide in him was a painful shock to the young man's system. He had always given his all, every minute of every day, and he couldn't help feeling that he had earned the right to be given at least the basics of whatever it was that had his father so drastically altered and shaken.

From the time he was a preschooler he had been prepared to work as hard as he was needed to. Bleed as much as he was required. Train until his muscles gave out. Help raise his brother no matter how much Dean needed to forfeit himself to get the job done. Seventeen years of love, sweat, pain, obedience and sacrifice, only to be stonewalled by the father he had given everything he had in him to give.

The hurt of an insecure child was warring with the frustration and anger of an emerging independent man.

Another part of the equation was the absolute surety that Sammy was pulling in another direction, and Dean was determined to see that never happen. If it took Dean setting the example to their father that his sons were growing up, then that was what he was going to do.

Sam had always exhibited the independent nature that Dean had suppressed for the good of his family. His little brother was kept compliant for now under the threat of punishment for disobedience, but the time was rapidly coming when that would no longer be be the case. Sam was going to need additional inducements to accept his hunting life as a willing adult, and not as a child without a choice.

The research for the hunts was every bit as important as the physical part of them. Sammy was a capable hunter for his age. Strong and talented. Good with a gun or a knife. He didn't hesitate in a fight and not much really scared him, except for clowns. He was a good hunter, but Dean knew that he hated the fight, and hated all the bloodshed that came with it.

Dad was going to have to understand that Sam's part of the family business was going to be as the bookworm, and not the warrior. Dean himself was more than willing and able to do the dirty work. In fact, he was thrilled as hell to see what his little brother could come up with as far as lore went when he had the ability to study it full time.

How many hunts had they missed simply because they didn't have the knowledge to recognize abstract cases? How many more lives could they save with new information?

Dean wanted Sam to see the hunting life as an adult. When the frequent travels were made without the emotional attachments to school friends, and he didn't have to juggle research assignments on top of class assignments. It could be a good life. A fun life, if Sam could just be given the chance to understand that, without having his mind half focused on homework.

It was time for his serious little brother to relax and enjoy himself. Go to a bar with his big brother. Enjoy the company of pretty young ladies. To stop working himself sick, like he was right now.

Sammy was a caring and compassionate kid. Dean was positive that his little brother would still get pleasure out of helping people if it meant he didn't add to his scar collection on a regular basis.

It wasn't as if they hunted every single day of their lives. Sure, evil was busy, but they had never caught cases twenty-four/seven. There would be stretches of a week or two at a time when they laid low and hustled to line their pockets. A chance for the brothers to spend time doing fun things, and not worrying about the next monster coming down the pike.

Time for Dad and Sam to get to know one another as _people_ and not just father and son at each other's throats. Maybe they could finally have the chance to develop the kind of more comfortable bond that John and Dean had and, _God willing_ , Sammy could stop being so angry all the time. They were getting so much closer to that being a reality, Dean could almost taste it.

It was a heady dream.

One that Dean was willing to put everything he could into making a reality. Dad and Sam didn't know it yet, but Dean was going to fight to keep a hold on their little house for as long as he could.

/

When Jim Murphy was a small boy of nine years old, his mother went completely insane.

It happened gradually, over time.

At first it was random bouts of paranoia and increased anxiety regarding Jim and his brother. Whether it was where they were going, or if they were sleeping too much or too little.

Then it was the blink of an eye mood shifts, where she would either be smothering them with affection or screaming at the top of her lungs and pelting them with flying projectiles of whatever was accessible at the moment.

Sometimes she forgot their names, and on the really bad days, forgot who they were entirely.

She would shriek and threaten to dial the police if the two little urchins in her house didn't get away from her _immediately_. Usually followed by her inability to remember who she was going to call and dropping down onto her bed to sleep for twelve hours while the boys made themselves sandwiches and huddled together on the front steps of their house waiting for the next crisis.

On occasion she would talk about their father, and hysterically rant on the evils of the world. The monsters in it that took good men from their families, and how she needed to protect her boys from meeting the same fate. Jim and his brother were too young to understand what she meant, only knowing that Pop was dead because of a conflict in some country called Korea.

There were good days when she would be coherent enough to collect the mail and remember to deposit the benefit checks that the family received after the death of Jim's father during active military duty. Bills would get paid and groceries were bought, and the brothers could breathe easier for a minute.

Then everything would shift again, and the two boys had only each other to rely on while their mother mentally checked out of consciousness. They learned early to keep their heads down and not make waves because they had already lost their father, and their mother was never really far behind him.

In the end, it was a garbage man with a drinking problem and poor work ethic that finally drove her over the edge.

For some reason that will forever remain unknown, Jim's mother was tipped completely over the edge simply because their street got skipped on trash night. It was as if she saw such an innocuous action as a harbinger that all safety and reality was deserting her and her boys, and an overwhelming need to protect them from the evil that lurked in the darkness took a hold of her and refused to let go.

The boys should have known better. It was only their youth, and a desperate hope to see their mother acting normally, that blinded them to the mania in her eyes when she piled them into the car for ice cream.

It was the middle of the summer, the air humid and ripe with cut grass and barbecue smoke. They drove down to the lake and stopped at the ice cream stand a few hundred yards from the boat launch. Jim's mother gave each of her boys a dollar and they clambered out of the car to stand in line and get their treats, excitement shining in their eyes, like all children when swirly cones and sundaes were scooped nearby.

Neither noticed the thousand yard stare on their mother's face while she sat behind the wheel, leisurely smoking a cigarette.

The boys piled back into the back seat, cones in their hands already starting to melt in the summer heat, dripping down their fingers as they rushed to lick the sides. They jostled each other good naturedly, in the way that siblings do, twisting against the sticky warmth of the vinyl underneath them as they put their bare feet up against the back of the front bench seat.

When the last crunch of cone had been eaten, the boys scrubbing at the messy dribbles on their chins with balled up paper napkins, Mother started the car and pulled away from the stand. By the time the boys realized that she turned left towards the lake and not right towards town, it was too late.

The impact of the car diving into the water shocked them at first, in the way that your mind is aware that something terrible is happening, but can't quite register the specifics of what it was just yet. The windows were half open because the boys had been enjoying the breeze as they cruised along the drive to town, and neither was prepared for the rush of water that poured into the car at high speed.

Mother wasn't moving in the front street, and Jim remembers being confused as to why she wasn't doing something, _anything_ , to help her boys in the back. Her eyes were open and staring at the darkening depth coming ever closer to them, and there was a keening noise in the background that he didn't recognize as his own vocalized terror until he saw his brother choking and flailing when his side of the car pitched further downward than Jim's.

After that, everything seemed to crawl to slow motion.

He remembers the encroaching darkness. The coldness of the lake water that deadened his limbs and infiltrated his lungs, making them burn with agony as his body kicked into fight or flight. The lack of oxygen caused black spots in his vision and he struggled to grab his brother and try to make it to one of the open windows, but his eyes were unfocused, and he was small and scared and his brother kept slipping from his grasp.

He thrashed in the icy water, managing to push enough against the glass of his half opened window to crack it, and then break it entirely. The jagged edges ripped open his wrist and the water tinged pink as he bled.

A sort of peace came over him after that, as he halted his struggles, and he felt himself drift and nothing hurt anymore. But then a blinding white light blazed through his closed eye lids and he saw his brother, glowing and smiling at him, and telling him that everything was going to be okay and, for some reason, Jim had believed him.

He learned the truth when he woke up in the children's ward of the hospital a day later. Two good Samaritans had seen the car take it's watery crash into the lake and they dove in after it. They had reached Jim first and were able to pull him out and resuscitate him, but it had been too late to save his mother and brother.

After almost a week in the hospital, weak from blood loss and fighting off an infection from the bacteria in the lake water that had aspirated into his lungs, he was released into the custody of the state of Minnesota. With no family left to speak of, a local Lutheran church made the arrangements to bury Jim's mother and brother, and then placed Jim in an affiliated orphanage outside of St. Paul.

His entire world shattered, Jim had retreated into himself, speaking to no one and barely going through the necessary motions to keep himself clean and fed. His brother had promised that he would be okay, but the family-less orphan felt anything but okay as he spent his days curled up on his bed in the dormitory he shared with seven other boys.

When one of the pastors that volunteered at the orphanage tried to convince the distraught child that God had saved him for a purpose, it had taken every ounce of self restraint Jim had in him not to lash out at the man over the absurdity of the statement. He settled for grabbing a glass that contained milk he refused to drink, and hurling it against the wall in despair.

The resounding crack snapped him somewhat back to his senses as he watched the liquid drip down the wall and onto the floor in a shiny white puddle and, having always been a good and kind boy at heart, he immediately felt regret. He darted over to begin picking up the mess, accidentally cutting a large gash on his hand from the razor sharp shards.

He didn't know how it happened. Not really.

All he knew was that one minute the kind pastor had been kneeling next to him to assist, blood flowing everywhere, and the next a spectral image was dancing over them, and the pastor's face had gone completely white as he recognized the face of his dead daughter.

That was when Jim Murphy realized that his brush with the afterlife had created a gateway between himself and the ones that had passed on, and he could summon the dead to him, it he was willing to spill his own blood to do it.

It was only a matter of time before he eventually became acquainted with the world of the supernatural because, after all, hunters always come to The Life from some sort of personal tragedy.

At first he thought he was going crazy, since crazy ran bone deep in his family already, what with the homicidal/suicidal mother and all. It took years of maturing and deep personal reflection, and a growing understanding of the sub-world surrounding him, before he finally accepted the _Gift? Curse?_ for what it was. Sometimes he wondered if his mother's mania really did stem from an awareness of the evil in the world and not necessarily just out of a chemical imbalance and early widowhood.

Time spent in the orphanage, under the tutelage and care of the good clergy there, encouraged his entry to seminary. In religion, he found peace. Not just for his own personal need to stave off the possibility of encroaching insanity, but also the fulfillment he found in helping those around him. Some he helped as a newly ordained pastor at a small church in Blue Earth, and some he helped with his less obvious _talents._

That was how he first encountered John Winchester and his boys.

John came to him through a mutual friend, and although Jim's attempt to help the grieving widower connect to his late wife had been not only unproductive, but potentially disastrous, the two men bonded over shared grief. The connection to Mary Winchester had been interrupted by something that could only be described as a demonic interference. As if the forces of the afterlife were conspiring to keep Mary and John apart.

Jim had been attacked on a physical and spiritual level that day, and it was a miracle he had survived. Even so, he had offered on more than one occasion after that, to try again. To John's credit, the grieving widower never accepted Jim's offer, although the pastor could see that he was sorely tempted. Jim eventually stopped offering, since his good intentions only served to increase the other man's pain.

That's not to say that he couldn't help the little family in other ways.

Over the years, Jim had welcomed them into his home at the church whenever John and his boys needed shelter and rest. In John, Jim saw his own mother, distraught with grief and desperate to come to terms with the horrific loss he had suffered. In Sam and Dean, Jim saw himself and his brother. Two young boys growing up in a shattered family with only one damaged parent to care for them.

Jim was another hunter in the small circle of Winchester family confidants that genuinely loved the brothers. He had offered his home to them many times over the years so that they could grow up in one place and establish roots, but John had always rejected the offer outright.

Jim didn't push. Whether it was because of his patience as a man of the cloth, or the knowledge of a hunter that knew what was out there in the dark. Whatever it was, John Winchester was determined to keep one step ahead of it, and he kept his boys so far hidden from the rest of the hunting world that most of the other people in the community didn't even know he had kids, let alone where they were at any given time.

They were good boys. Bright, talented and mischievous. Like Bobby Singer, Jim had always been astounded by Dean's devotion to his little brother. It made the pastor ache for his own brother, gone for such a long time, but never forgotten. Jim had been the little brother then, and sometimes he wondered if his brother had willingly gone to his death to make Jim's own rescue and resuscitation possible. He often wished to see the face of the sibling he had loved so much with his special gift, but like a cruel cosmic joke, that last moment in the water was the only time his brother had appeared to him.

Jim had been more successful earlier today, when John had brought his late wife's uncle to the church. He could tell that his old friend was painfully reluctant to ask Jim to spill more blood for his quest, but it was a sacrifice that the pastor had been more than willing to make after so many years of disappointment when it came to John's troubles.

It had taken a deep cut to his own wrist, now stitched and bandaged and aching, to finally summon the spirit of Samuel Campbell. There had been only a brief moment of contact, but it had been enough. Through the shaky veil between brothers, one word was passed from the other side. The name of the demon that had possessed Samuel at the time of his death.

Azazel.

Jim had heard the name before in scripture. Azazel was purported to be a fallen angel, which made an interesting story if it was now a demon, and an old one at that. The story of Azazel was at the very beginning of the bible, millennia ago.

For the first time, Jim began to understand the scope of how big this picture was. How deeply entrenched the small family now found themselves, in things that were difficult to understand, and why, possibly, the connection with Mary Winchester had been interrupted and ended so brutally.

John was predictably sitting in the nave of the church when Jim found him.

His friend, although not particularly religious, had often found comfort in the hard wood pews, surrounded by the heady scent of melting wax and the gentle flicker of candlelight. The light streaming in a kaleidoscope of colors refracted through the stained glass windows.

It was a peaceful place. One of refuge that Jim often enjoyed himself, even after all these years of ministering to his flock. It was where Jim took the people he was trying to help with his gift, and the last place that John had seen his wife's face. John often went to speak to her there, in the grasping hope that she could somehow hear his words.

John didn't indicate that he sensed Jim's presence, but the pastor wasn't fooled. His friend would have known that he was approaching well before he had even opened the heavy wood door to come inside. Walking quietly, he slipped into the pew to sit next to John.

"How's your arm?"

Jim looked down at his wrist and absently rubbed the bandage, a smile on his face.

"I've had worse from trying to rebuild the cabinets in my office."

It was a lie, and a poor one at that, but it broke the ice. John didn't need to feel more guilt than he already did about a multitude of things on a daily basis.

"Thanks."

"You don't need to thank me, John. I was happy to do it. You know that."

They were quiet while John fiddled with his wedding ring, exhaustion apparent in the lines on his face.

"You have a name now, my friend. It's progress."

"Yeah," John replied, sighing deeply. "Singer's already collecting books. I'm heading out in a minute. Just needed to gather my thoughts."

Another moment of silence passed, the only sound the occasional car passing by.

"What are you going to tell the boys?" Jim's voice was soft, but there was firm prodding behind it.

"Nothing," John replied. "Not until I know what I'm dealing with."

"John," Jim cautioned, putting a gentle hand on his friends arm, "They should know. Especially Sam."

"Not yet."

John's words were final. Not up for debate or scrutiny. He got up from the pew, patted his friend on the shoulder and strode out into the daylight without looking back.

/

Dean had really needed this hunt.

Even though he felt guilty as hell about leaving Sam home alone, sick and tired but on the mend, he missed the rush and overall feeling of satisfaction over taking another monstrous piece off the chess board.

Dad was doing better as well. The two of them were exactly alike in that way. The hunt had become an integral part of who they were as men, and there was an ever present gaping hole that needed to be filled during their down time. A good kill was the calm in their storms.

Honestly, Dean had been surprised to get the call. Dad had been so out of reach lately that the summons for a routine hunt was the last thing he had been expecting when he answered his phone on Friday. Six men had gone missing along the south western shore of Lake Superior, and Dad suspected it was the work of a selkie.

Ordinarily, John didn't like to take his boys along on hunts when they fit the profile of the vics, but there was minimal risk with this particular creature.

Selkies were almost unheard of in the states, and they tended to be passive shapeshifters, but this specific female had gone mad due to being stuck in a lake and unable to reach the seaway. She was repeatedly enticing men in the hopes they would take her home, and then getting vengeful when they didn't. It was the middle of the winter. The bodies were being found in the water. Drowned and frozen, with large claw marks shredding the chests.

Dean was itching for a gig, feeling a little cabin fever setting in. It had been over two months since the last time he had hunted with his father and Caleb for the zombies. Sammy was over his flu for the most part, and neither Dean nor their father wanted the kid playing wounded, so little brother was allowed to stay home with strict instructions to lay low and get better. On Saturday, Dean had called to check in with him once in the morning, and then again at night. Other than a little congestion, his little brother sounded okay.

Dean had been happy to play bait. They waited for late Saturday night, when no one else would be around the hunting ground. As soon as the selkie shifted into the body of a young woman and tried to drag Dean into the water, Dad had come out from his hiding spot behind a shed and shot her through the heart with a silver tipped arrow. Although not a particularly difficult hunt, the satisfaction remained the same.

It would have been okay for Dean to leave first thing Sunday morning to head back to South Dakota. The hunt was over. Monster terminated. It was the look on John's face that had his oldest son hanging around a little longer than normal.

Dad was preoccupied.

Acting more on edge than normal, and considering the last few months, that was really saying something. Several times John had started to speak, only to change his mind. Dean had been hoping that if he just stayed quiet but present, eventually his father might confide in what had him so bothered, but by late Sunday afternoon, the older man was still acting close lipped, almost angry but still stubbornly silent, and Dean couldn't delay his departure for home any longer. He wanted to get Sammy fed with a good breakfast in the morning before heading back to school.

It was beginning to feel like his father was upset with him for some reason, and that notion made Dean decidedly uncomfortable, wondering if his father could sense his slightly lessening faith.

Dad had walked back with Dean to the car as he was getting ready to leave, an indecipherable expression on his bearded face. Dean had reflexively stiffened, fearing a sharp rebuke for some unknown offense, years of being on the receiving end of John's ever unpredictable mood swings making him nervous.

He had thought that the weekend had gone well, but when his father had approached him, the older man's demeanor was distinctly giving the impression of discomfort. John didn't speak for a moment, increasing his oldest son's unease and almost causing Dean to miss the quiet words that he first spoke.

"Sammy seems really happy these days, Son," John muttered, his eyes cast down to the pavement of the parking lot. "You're doing a real good job with him."

Dean had taken in a sharp breath in surprise. The sharpness stemming from both the rare compliment as well as the horrific realization of what that admission was costing his father in pride. He knew without being told that Dad was more or less admitting that Dean was better at parenting Sammy than John was himself.

In his wildest dreams he wouldn't imagine trying to show John up in anything. His dad was Dean's living breathing hero and he would rather cut off his own arm than do something to make John feel less than himself in any way. Of course, after all of their years on the road with John running off to one hunt or another, Dean did have more actual experience in the day to day care of the youngest Winchester, but it was a topic that was never openly admitted to in conversation.

Switching gears to his usual mask of bravado, Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat and pasted a smart ass smirk on his face.

"Nah, not really. The kid gives me grief all the time. You're the good cop now," he assured his father.

John laughed softly for a second, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. Regardless of what Dean thought, he knew both of his sons too well to be fooled by his firstborn's attempts to reassure him that he was anything more than a drill sergeant to them most of the time, the recent holidays aside.

Although it could be difficult to show them, he loved both of his boys with an intensity that frightened him sometimes, which only fueled his driving passion to do whatever needed to be done to keep them safe.

Even if it came at the cost of their love for him.

In less than five months time, his twenty-two year old son had managed to somehow tame Sammy's rebellious streak that John had been ripping his hair out over for years. Sammy had been respectful, enthusiastic, attentive and affectionate. Things that he had not been with any real regularity since he was eight and, truthfully, John had never again expected to see.

Sure, part of Sammy's compliance could be a result of not wanting to endanger John's agreement to the year off the road, but the kid was genuinely happy these days.

Anyone could see that.

"Besides," Dean had continued, somewhat uncomfortably, "he's come down with some bug. _Again_. I'm not sure how this keeps happening. I'm sorry, Dad."

John, saddened by his eldest's painfully guilty admission, turned to give the boy a good hard look. Sure enough, Dean's eyes were downcast as he was prone to do whenever he felt responsible for something going wrong and was expecting a rebuke. John inwardly swore, not for the first time, his oft repeated commands to Dean to keep his brother safe biting him in the ass.

 _Was Dean really taking the blame for the flu?_

He had never meant to make the kid feel like he had to protect Sammy from __everything__.

"Dean, this isn't the first or last time your brother is going to get a little cold, or whatever it is. You can't take that on yourself," he scolded, using the commanding alpha male voice that Dean had always responded best to.

"Sam's old enough to know how to avoid getting sick when he can help it," John said firmly.

Dean had nodded, somewhat jerkily, and John could tell that his son was not entirely convinced of the sincerely of his words. Frustrated, he tried a different approach.

"Dude, you boys caught everything under the sun growing up. Do you blame me for that?"

Those words did get Dean's awareness and he immediately snapped back to attention, a look of horror on his face.

"No, sir! Of course not."

John allowed himself a small smile at his son's sudden insistence and Dean, sensing an ease in the tension, grinned sheepishly at his old man. His father didn't say anything, just grabbed him in a very quick half hug and opened the driver's side door of the Impala for him. Dean noticed, with a small smile, the way John's hand still reverently stroked the handle of the classic car, reminding him that the old girl had been his father's baby before she had been his.

"Get going, you got a long trip back."

Dean had nodded and slipped in behind the wheel, the happiness he always felt driving washing over him. He gave his father one last nod, the unspoken communication between them filled with the emotional words neither one of them were any good at speaking out loud. When he pulled out of the parking lot, his father was still standing in watch over his departure, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, keeping an eye on his boy for as long as he could before Dean disappeared again.

Maybe he had been overreacting, maybe not, but Dean knew to his very bones that his father had entrusted _both_ of his babies to Dean, and it wasn't a responsibility that he took lightly.

/

Sam had grown close to three inches since his father bought him a suit last year. It had been barely serviceable for the homecoming dance in the fall, but even now, just a few months later, it was so ridiculously short that Sam couldn't allow himself to be seen in it.

Getting dressed at the motel in Palo Alto that morning, he eventually decided on just a white button down shirt and his school khakis. Dean had taken him shopping a week before the second semester started because his three pairs of khakis that had been bought in August were also looking very high water-ish.

He had needed new pants, plain and simple. Now that winter had set in he was wearing the embossed school v-neck pullovers instead of the polo shirts, and so they had also bought a few dress shirts to wear underneath the sweaters, as well as the two striped school ties.

He gave a passing thought to adding the tie, but decided against it. It might be a little more formal, and made a better impression, or it might just look like he was trying too hard. Either way, it made him uncomfortable and he was having enough trouble suppressing his lingering congested coughs, so the last thing he needed was something choking his neck during the interview.

He was nervous enough as it was.

When Mr. Hopkins had called him back into his office with the news that Stanford wanted Sam to come for an interview for a possible scholarship, Sam had almost outright dismissed it. Things were going really well at home with his family, and the youngest Winchester was less than enthused about stirring up trouble.

He knew it would be a privilege and an honor to even be accepted at such a prestigious university, let alone be offered a chance to study there for free. When he originally sent out the application, it had almost been as a joke. Something humorous he could say to himself like _yeah, once I had this dumb idea that I could get a full ride to this awesome school._

Now that he knew how serious the school was about admitting him, it was a little terrifying to be honest.

Mr. Hopkins had all but assured Sam that he would be offered a place. These interviews weren't offered to applicants that were going to be rejected, and the bright boy had a very good chance to be given the world on a plate. No small feat for a kid that came from a disadvantaged home where academic excellence wasn't actively pushed. He strongly encouraged Sam to take every chance he could get to make the best life possible for himself.

Realistically, Sam knew that his father and brother would never willingly take him all the way to California for an interview at a college he wouldn't be allowed to attend in the first place. Dean might be up for a road trip to a beach and some girls in a bikini, but it's not like Sam could just slip away from him long enough to head to the school's campus and have an official meeting.

As far as his father was concerned, John would dismiss the notion completely, and probably lock Sam in his room until his eighteenth birthday just to make sure his son didn't get any more bright ideas that would separate him from the family business.

Still, Sam hadn't turned the interview down either. As far as the scholarship committee was concerned, Samuel Winchester of Sioux Falls, South Dakota was expected in their conference room bright and early at nine a.m. Monday morning of February twenty-sixth.

Sam had that appointment set up for almost two weeks, keeping it to himself as a deep, dark secret that ate away at him day and night, and it showed. He knew that Dean could tell that something was bothering him, and it was a sort of "lucky" break when he caught the flu again, because at least being sick gave him a reason to brush off his brother's concerns of something mental in favor of something physical.

It didn't help that Mr. Hopkins would see him in the halls and grin, repeatedly asking him if he was getting nervous, and then attempting to boost his confidence by assuring him that everything would go well. Right now Sam was lying to just about everyone in his life, including himself, and he was starting to crack under the pressure.

As Sam's health improved, and the day drew nearer, the reality that he was going to have to do something, _and_ _quickly_ , was breathing down his neck like a freight train. He had been putting off confessing to his brother as long as he could, and he had just about decided that he needed to bite the bullet and tell Dean what was going on when his brother got the summons from Dad to help out on the selkie hunt. A hunt where an under-the-weather Sam wasn't required to participate.

It was almost too good to be true.

Palo Alto was a twenty-seven hour drive from Sioux Falls. Sam could easily drive twelve to fourteen hours a day, just about all he would be able to do considering that he was still feeling like crap most of the time. Dean was leaving Friday night to meet their father in Wisconsin, and he wouldn't be back until sometime on Sunday. Sam would be long gone by then, and by the time Dean found out where he was, it would be too late for his big brother to stop him from getting to the interview first thing Monday morning.

It was duplicitous and wrong.

Sam knew that as soon as he had to confess to his brother where he was, all Hell was going to break loose. Dean was going to be furious.

And worried.

And _hurt_ , most of all.

He would see Sam's actions as nothing less than the ultimate betrayal for all of the hard work Dean had done to give his little brother this very special year away from the veritable crap fest that usually encompassed their lives on the road.

Worst of all, Dean would have to tell Dad that Sam had taken off again the minute his big brother wasn't around to keep an eye on him. Sam knew that his father was going to be beyond pissed at Sam himself for going out on his own. He didn't even want to think of the explosive level of fallout that he was going to have to endure once John came home to deal with him. Dad was probably going to need to buy a new belt by the time he was done expressing his displeasure on Sam's ass.

But it wasn't really himself that Sam was worried about.

Dean would end up taking the brunt of their father's wrath, as he always did, because that was just how John reacted whenever something went pear shaped when his boys were anywhere without him.

Considering how much Sam's big brother lived for their father's approval, it was going to be shattering for him. Dad would see the whole thing as a failure on Dean's part, even if it was Sam who was being the sneaky, disobedient one. That knowledge alone should have kept Sam in the house, with a kind letter sent to the committee, thanking them for their consideration and an apology for taking up their time.

That would be the right thing to do here.

But the part of Sam that had spent so many hours over the course of so many years working his ass off, specifically for a chance like this, couldn't brush off the opportunity.

He _couldn't_.

Even though Sam knew that he would realistically eventually settle for one of the two lesser colleges to keep the peace with his family, the part of him that strove for so much more than the _mediocre_ that had defined their lives had to know if he really had it in him to be the best.

Doing this, going behind his family's backs, was going to absolutely torpedo the rest of his school year. He knew that without being told, and had already accepted that it was the price he was going to need to pay. If he got into his car, the very one that his family had lovingly and thoughtfully built for him, he needed to have already made his peace with the knowledge that life, as he currently knew it, would be over.

There would be no forgiveness for this, and no second chances. Trust would be broken, and the ensuing ramifications would insure that he was never given the opportunity to run off again from his brother's custody.

In the end it was the overall unfairness of the situation that finally decided the matter for him.

In normal families, Sam would be praised and encouraged for earning this chance at such a prize. He would have a father that was beaming with pride as they drove to Stanford's manicured campus and walked to the conference room together, with Dad giving him a confident grin and a pat on the back for good luck as he went in to dazzle the committee members with his hard work and dedication.

Later, after an interview that went better than Sam could have hoped for, his big brother would take him out for a congratulatory beer, bought on the sly, and they could talk about all of the pretty California girls that Sam could flirt with while he attended classes at one of the most elite schools in the country.

Sam shouldn't have to sneak out, like a thief in the night, as if this dream was something to be ashamed of, and that is what finally pushed him to the conclusion that he was going to take the shot while he could get it and deal with the consequences later.

Dean would eventually forgive him, especially if Sam could make sure that his brother knew he was okay. His brother's main concern was Sam's safety, and as long as he could ease Dean's mind about that, chances were they could talk it out.

Not that Dean would let him get off easy.

Long before Dad got a hold of him, Sam would be on lock down so deep he might never see sunlight again. Which would be a moot point when his father came home and killed his youngest son, but at least Sam would not live with the regret of never even having tried.

He had enough money saved for gas and a couple of nights at a motel. Dean kept emergency cash in a book on the third shelf of the bookcase in the living room. Sam could borrow some of that for whatever he couldn't pay for himself.

Honestly, he felt pretty bad about grabbing that.

Probably more so than any of the other deceitful things he was doing. His brother worked really hard for his money now. It wasn't as easy as simply hustling, and Sam felt pretty shitty about taking it without asking. Dean would have more than willingly given it if Sam had asked, but since he couldn't tell his brother why, Sam was now officially the kid that stole from his own brother.

Before the sun was even up that Saturday morning, Sam jumped out of bed, already packed and ready to go. He printed out the route and directions for the campus and shoved them into his backpack. Earlier in the week he had made an approximate schedule that he wanted to keep to, to ensure maximum efficiency for the drive there and back. He would miss two days of school, but Mr. Hopkins had already made arrangements with the attendance office to excuse him.

They would still call Dean first thing Monday morning, but by then his brother would know from Sam himself that he wasn't coming home until late Tuesday.

Grabbing the emergency cash and leaving a note on the refrigerator, Sam threw his things in the Camaro and headed west.

/

All things considered, Dean was in a pretty good mood when he made the turn onto their street just before ten o'clock Sunday evening.

Although his father still was stonewalling him with information on what was really going on in his life, the hunt had been successful, and just being with his dad for a couple of days settled Dean's nerves. He wasn't ashamed to admit that his father's physical presence could lessen the weight of responsibility that Dean always carried around with him. For just a little while, Dean could relax and let Dad drive the bus.

Sam was sounding better, his congestion still noticeable but lessening, when Dean had called him a few hours earlier, so the big brother wasn't feeling as guilty for leaving him behind when he wasn't one hundred percent. Truthfully, it was probably a good thing for them both to have some time away on occasion. He loved his brother, but that didn't mean they didn't need some space from time to time. Dad hadn't minded letting his younger son stay behind, so it hadn't been an issue.

To make up for his absence, Dean was bringing home the _Compact Oxford English Dictionary_ that Sammy had been salivating over, having made a special stop at a bookstore in Minneapolis just to acquire it.

The title was complete bullshit, because the thing weighed a _ton_ and there was absolutely _nothing_ compact about it. It also cost a small fortune, but Dean had managed to hustle two obnoxious preppy dicks at the bar he had hit with Dad the night before. He had been happy to take their money, and it was only fitting that he use it to buy something fancy for his own little geek boy.

Sam was going to flip his shit when he saw it, and that put a smile on his big brother's face as he went to pull into their driveway.

The first thing that was glaringly apparent, was the fact that Sam's car wasn't in the driveway. Dean wasn't ready to completely freak out just yet, but that didn't stop him from jumping out of the Impala and racing into the house. He ran inside and yelled for his brother, heart thudding in fear until he noticed the light on in the kitchen.

They had a message board on the fridge that they used for communication on the rare occasions that they weren't home at the same time, so it was the first thing Dean checked. As soon as he saw the message, Dean's anxiety kicked back down to a more manageable level.

 _Everything is fine_

 _Give me a call when you get this_

 _\- Sam_

Dean's fingers were still a little shaky when he hit speed dial 1 on his phone, and it wasn't until he heard his little brother's voice that his adrenaline started to recede.

" _Hey Dean."_

"Sammy, where are you?" Dean was trying to keep the fear out of his voice, but he wasn't doing a very good job.

" _Don't get mad, okay?"_

And there went Dean's attempts to be calm.

" _Where_ are you, Sam?"

There was a pause, which did nothing to help Dean's nerves, and when Sam spoke again, he could hear the trembling in his brother's voice.

" _California."_

For a moment, Dean feared he had gone temporarily insane, because he thought for sure that his little brother had just told him that he was halfway across the country, and that was _ridiculous_. His little brother would never do something that monumentally stupid.

He took a deep breath and tried to level out his voice, even though the blood was rushing so fast through his head it was almost making him dizzy.

"Please tell me that's the name of a new club in town that you were foolish enough to leave the house and go visit with your friends. _Please_ , Sammy. Tell me that."

Another pause, and Sam's voice was tiny and shaky.

" _I'm at a motel just outside of San Francisco."_

Dean dropped into one of the new kitchen chairs and raked his fingers through his hair. He clenched his eyes shut tight and struggled to keep his temper in check.

" _I'm fine, Dean. Really. Everything is okay."_

Neither of them spoke for a couple of minutes, the empty air between them crackling with tense static. When Dean came back on the line, his voice was deceptively calm and deep.

"Is this another Flagstaff, Sam?"

" _No! Dean, I_ swear _. I haven't taken off. I just needed to do something and I'll be back on Tuesday night. I promise."_

"Do _what_ , Sam. What is so fucking important you had to take off behind my back and drive all the way to California without telling me?"

There was another minute of empty air, and the silence only served to fuel the flames of anger burning up Dean's chest as painful memories of the last time Sam had taken off without warning flooded his brain.

" _It's nothing dangerous_ ," came the only response, as if saying that made it okay

"Great," Dean spit out, a red haze of rage descending over his eyes. "Then tell me what it is, because I'm telling you right now, Sam. I'm not really in a forgiving mood at the moment."

" _I can't right now. Just…trust me. Please? I'm okay and I'll be back soon."_

Dean felt a bubble of laughter burst from his lungs, and he pinched his nose as a monster of a headache began to announce it's presence.

" _Trust you_? Yeah, I don't think so. That ship's not only sailed, but it sank two miles out to sea. You're gonna need to do better than that, Sammy."

" _Look,"_ and Dean could hear the _let's talk about this like rational adults_ tone in his brother's voice.

The one that pissed him right the fuck off.

" _I'm heading back home late tomorrow morning. I will call you as many times a day as you want me to until I'm back, so you know where I am and that I'm perfectly fine."_

Dean had just about had enough of the stonewalling from both of the members of his family and, quite frankly, he was well and truly sick of it. Holding his phone between his ear and shoulder, he grabbed the large atlas from the shelf in the computer alcove and began to flip pages, mentally calculating drive time in his head.

" _Dean, I know you're pissed, and I know that I'm in big trouble, but can we just settle this when I get back?"_

The older brother ignored the voice on the phone that was getting increasingly more worried as he plotted his route. When he spoke again, his voice was in control, scarily calm and cold as ice.

"This is what is gonna happen. You're gonna meet me in Elko, Nevada tomorrow. You will _not_ drive back here alone. You will _not_ pass go. You will _not_ collect two hundred dollars. You are going to get your ass to the motel of my choosing and you are going to call me every two hours starting at eight a.m."

" _I have to be somewhere at nine."_ Sam whispered, and it sounded like the kid might cry.

"Every... _two_...hours, Samuel. Figure it the fuck out. You hear me?"

He could hear the sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. Probably because in seventeen years, Dean had never used his brother's full name in anger. _Good_. The kid should be scared.

" _Yes."_

"Do _not_ make me have to come find you."

" _Okay."_ There was another small pause, and Dean could hear the shaky breathing on the other side. _"I'm sorry."_

Dean didn't respond. He ended the call with a vicious stab at his phone and felt his pulse speeding up as the reality of just how fucked he was at the moment took hold. He repeatedly raked his hands through his hair and tried to focus his eyes as his vision went blurry.

Chest heaving and feeling like he was drowning, he grabbed the farm table with both hands and flipped it, sending everything that had been on top flying across the room.

" _SON OF A BITCH!"_

/

Sam was physically and mentally exhausted when he pulled into the motel parking lot in Elko.

He had no idea what was waiting for him inside. He had never heard his brother sound like he had on the phone before. Too much like their father, and the chillingly close resemblance had created icy tendrils of fear that were gripping Sam's heart and threatening to squeeze it until he couldn't breathe anymore.

Dean could be a frightening person when he chose to be. It was the natural reaction of living the life of a hunter. When you spent your life tracking down and killing real evil, mentally it had to take you to a place where you evolved into something else entirely out of necessity. Sam had seen it on his brother's face and in his eyes. Heard it in his voice.

The cold, emotionless surety that there was only going to be one outcome from your entanglement with him, and it was going to be at the expense of your life.

That voice had never been directed at Sam before, and honestly, it was scaring the shit out of him.

Not that he didn't logically know that he didn't need to be genuinely afraid of his big brother. On a conscious level, he knew that Dean would never really hurt him in any profound way. He was sure that his brother was going to be furious and rage about it forever, and Sam had expected that. Had known as soon as he made his decision to make the trip that the repercussions were going to be severe and long lasting.

That was the bargain he had made with himself the minute he conceived of the idea to carry out such a monumentally bold and wholly disobedient plan. Now it was time to pay the piper, at least with his brother, and Sam was going to have to man up and take it.

There was a slight tremble to his hand as he took the keys out of the ignition, and he shook it out, trying to calm down. He pulled in a deep breath and released it slowly, like Dad had showed him, to slow his rapid heart rate. Sam couldn't afford to be a nervous, hysterical wreck when he faced his brother. It didn't help his case that he was adult enough to have made this trip alone if he started to shake like a scared child as soon as he stood in Dean's presence.

Somehow, he managed to get out of the car without fumbling and he reached into the back seat and grabbed his duffel. It was dark, and he was cold and tired. Hungry and weary and still congested and he just wanted to get this over with and crawl into a bed.

By the time he has his things gathered and the car doors locked, Dean was standing in the open doorway of the motel room, his arms crossed and his face a complete blank.

It was the total absence of emotion on his brother's face that unnerved Sam. Not anger or worry, hostility or fear. Just smooth, pale lack of response, and although his brother was now two inches shorter, Dean's much wider and broader form was every bit as implacable, intimidating and firm as their father's had ever been.

It was more than disconcerting, and Sam felt his face pale.

As Sam approached, Dean shifted ever so slightly to gave the younger brother a fraction of space to slip through the open door and into the room. Sam noticed Uncle Bobby sitting in one the chairs at the kitchenette table and immediately knew why he was there. He could feel Dean's hot breath on his neck, bearing down on him, or at least that's what it felt like at the moment. Sam's blood was rushing so fast, it could have been a product of his wild imagination.

He turned just enough to cast a side glance at his brother, before pulling the car keys out of his pocket and handing them over to his silent sibling. Sam gave a passing thought as to when or if he would ever see them again, and the ache in the pit of his stomach lurched over his sadness.

Dean tossed them to Uncle Bobby, who caught them easily and got up from his chair. The older man shook his head at Sam, a mixture of sadness and irritation, and he clapped Dean on the back as he headed to the door and left. Outside, Sam could hear Cherry's engine roaring to life and then fade in the distance.

Legs trembling, Sam managed to keep standing straight as his brother circled in front of him. Long angry strides that ratcheted Sam's tension to stratospheric levels. So far Dean had been completely silent, and the younger brother wished that he would just start yelling already since the tense quiet was a million times worse. He waits, thinking the wisest course of action right now would be to keep quiet, but after the fifth time Dean passes in front of him, he can't take it anymore.

" _Dean.._."

It's like kicking a beehive.

Before Sam even knows what's happening, Dean's rounding on him and Sam is rocked back on his feet by a solid punch to the left side of his jaw. Stars explode in his eyes and blood rushes to his head as he reflexively begins to put himself in a defensive block, but then he stops himself. Knowing that he probably deserved that punch, and any other one his brother wants to throw at him. He forces his arms to his sides and racks his shoulders back, staring straight ahead and ready to take whatever is coming next without flinching.

Dean has never hit him in anger before. Not really. They've tussled on occasion, like most brothers at one point or another. But they have been trained to be warriors, and their father never allowed them to go at each other full bore because they were taught how to inflict maximum damage.

It's not just the punch that startles Sam. It's the unrestrained force behind it and the absolutely cold look in his brother's eyes as he delivers it. While the pain spreads on his jaw, tears of shock and hurt spring to Sam's eyes without his consent and he's ashamed of himself for showing so much weakness.

Dean is panting hard now, the discipline required to stop him from raising his fist again taking every bit of control he can summon. Sam is standing, but he's trembling, his mouth quivering, working hard to not cry. Looking pale and sick and _so damn young,_ and it's killing Dean to see him like this.

There's a flush of red blooming on Sam's cheek where Dean's fist has connected, and the big brother inside of Dean is disgusted with himself for being the one to put it there. Even if the little bastard deserves it, it doesn't mean that Dean is okay with being the one responsible. There is a war going on in his mind, and the fury in him builds for being put in this position in the first place.

Right now, he would really love to finish kicking Sam's ass, but he resists the urge, afraid that he will be unable to stop if he starts. A million nightmare scenarios had played out in his mind during the eighteen hour drive here and his nerves are shattered. He could really hurt Sam at this moment if he doesn't calm the fuck down.

Instead, he grits his teeth and yanks open their first aid kit. He pulls out a cold pack and snaps it until the chemicals inside activate. Crossing the room, he holds it out for the little bitch, not trusting himself to say a word.

Stupidly, Sam refuses it at first, his injured pride bringing out his inner asshole. Dean growls dangerously and thrusts it in the kid's face. Sam will either use it or have it shoved someplace uncomfortable.

"Take it," Dean hisses and waits until the kid wises up and gingerly pulls it out of his hand. Sam holds it up against his cheek and he looks so wrecked that a small part of Dean's anger recedes.

"I'm sorry," Sam mutters quietly, eyes dragging to the floor, unable to face is brother.

"Shut your fucking mouth, Sam!" Dean snaps back at him, and Sam recoils a little from the vehemence in his brother's voice, but Dean is not done with him.

"You're a selfish little bastard, you know that? You don't care about anyone but yourself. Do you even give a shit about how worried I've been?"

Sam turns his head away to face the wall so Dean can't see the tears continuing to well up in his eyes. He presses the cold pack tighter to his face and nods slightly. Wisely, he keeps quiet until Dean's pacing stops. Knowing that this means that his brother's anger level is starting to lower, he pushes his luck and whispers another barely audible apology as his tears fall.

"I'm _sorry_ ," he mumbles, voice teary with misery. "I thought if I left that note and kept in contact with you, you wouldn't worry."

Dean's eyes blazed fury as he got right in his little brother's face.

"I left you home alone, because you said you were sick and I _trusted_ you to stay there and rest instead of bringing you along with me to Dad. You stood there and you _lied_ right to my face, and then you _lied_ every time I called you all weekend."

Sam's shoulders, normally hunched anyway in the presence of his father and brother, turned even more into themselves as he stared pleadingly as his enraged brother.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Dean huffed and smiled. The same cold smile that didn't make it anywhere near his fire in his eyes.

"Yeah, so you keep saying."

He started pacing again, rubbing his face with his hand repeatedly, and Sam could see that he was trying to get his anger under control. Sam reached up and brushed the tears off his cheeks, trying not to be obvious. His brother had always hated to see him cry, and Sam wasn't going to give Dean another reason to be upset.

Dean wasn't fooled.

He could see his little brother breaking and it killed him. Sam looked like he hadn't slept in days. Pale and weak, as if he might collapse any minute. The kid had never driven a trip like that solo. It took stamina that needed to be built up over time, and he really had been ill already. Which meant that he probably hadn't been eating well either.

Dean might still be completely pissed off and hurt beyond measure, but he wasn't cruel. Sam needed food and sleep before anything else, and honestly, if Dean had to spend one more minute with him in the same room, he might explode again.

"Take a hot shower. You look like shit," he growled, not looking directly at his brother. "When I come back, your ass better be sitting at this table. You hear me?"

Dean glanced up quickly, just enough to see Sam nod, still looking at the wall. Grabbing his jacket and the keys to the Impala he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Sam stood motionless for a few seconds after his brother's departure. He had expected Dean to be angry, no doubt, but he had wildly underestimated just how much. Dean had been known to lash out when he was scared, but then he would calm down and let it go once whatever had frightened him had passed.

Sam could understand his brother being afraid of something happening to Sam while out on the road alone, but he was here safe and sound, and some stupid part of him assumed that Dean would relax as soon as he saw for himself that Sam was perfectly okay.

He would still be pissed no doubt, and probably lock Sam in the house for the rest of the school year, but Sam wasn't expecting that coldness in his face. His brother was looking at him with hate in his eyes and he wasn't sure how he was going to make that right again.

The idea of a hot shower sounded really good at the moment. Sam tossed the ice pack into the small freezer section of the motel room's mini-fridge and headed into the bathroom. He turned the hot water nozzle all the way up and used the toilet while the water warmed, stripping his clothes off and taking a good look at his face in the mirror.

There was a bruise developing on his cheek and he felt a second of irritation that he was going to have to use the concealer trick when he went back to school. Skin tone makeup was the go-to method of coping for abused wives and children everywhere, and also of young hunters who didn't want to end up in foster care. It wouldn't be the first time.

The room was filled with steam by the time he was done checking the damage. He stepped into the bath and let the hot water cascade over him and, for the first time in almost two days, he felt like he was warming up. It was also loosening up the mucus in his lungs and he started to cough out blobs, spitting them down the drain as he washed.

He would have stayed in there for an hour, but he didn't want to piss his brother off anymore than the nuclear level he was at already, so after fifteen minutes, he shut the water and toweled off. Stepping back into the now relative chilliness of the room, he grabbed boxers, pajama pants, a long sleeved tee and his warm hoodie from his duffel and dressed quickly, trying to retain his recently found warmth. He thought about turning on the television, because Dean usually liked having it on, but decided against it.

Maybe if the room was quiet, they could start to talk this out.

He sat down at the table, like he was told, and waited in the quiet of the empty room. Scanning the walls, they reminded him of every single shit hole motel room he had ever stayed at in his life. It never changed, this life. No matter what he did, or how much they worked towards normal, Sam would always end up in a room just like this one. That was why he needed out and, someday, he would find the right words to make his brother understand that.

It was another twenty minutes before Dean returned. He didn't look cold or angry anymore, which should have been a relief, but the blank mask on his face was somehow worse. Like a stranger wearing his brother's body, and the effect was disconcerting. Dean dumped a bag on the table and pulled out containers of Chinese take-out, placing a quart dish of hot and sour soup and a white cardboard container of low mein noodles in front of Sam.

"Eat. Then hit the rack. We're leaving early to head back."

The words were flat. Emotionless. Perfunctory. So different from the warm, cocky, friendly tone of his big brother.

Sam thought about refusing and just getting into bed, but Dean was staring at him, temper simmering and waiting for compliance. Not wanting to pick another fight, Sam opened the soup and gulped down a small spoonful. Once Dean seemed assured that his little brother was eating, he moved over to the couch and sat back, turning on the TV, but keeping the volume low.

Whether it was because Dean's anger was receding, or because he was on big brother auto pilot, Sam couldn't help noticing that he brought back Sam's favorite comfort food for times when he was sick. Hot and sour soup that relieved the sinus pressure of his nasal passages and let him breathe easier. Slippery low mein noodles that could be easily swallowed without paining a sore throat. It was a gesture of concern and kindness.

"Thanks."

Dean looked over at him and, for the briefest of seconds, Sam swore he saw a flash of hurt in his brother's eyes, but it flickered out quickly. Dean nodded briefly and returned his attention to a repeat of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ , which they boys found amusing due to the nature of the premise. Normally watching Sarah Michelle Geller in action made Dean smile, but not tonight.

Sam managed to eat half of the food that was put in front of him. He had been hungry, but his exhaustion was winning at the moment. Not ready to get into bed just yet, he braved his brother's ire by heading over to the couch and sitting on the opposite end from Dean, tucking his legs up underneath him. His brother had been quiet for the past twenty minutes, and Sam was ready to risk talking to him again.

"I really am sor..,"

"Stop it, Sam," Dean interrupted, more weary than pissed now. "Saying you're sorry doesn't change things."

And Sam nodded to himself, knowing that words of apology were going to fall flat with his brother for a while.

"I still feel bad you came all the way out here," he said quietly. "I would have been okay to get home on my own."

Dean was shaking his head, like he couldn't believe the stupidity of Sam's words, and the younger brother felt a small twinge of frustration, because Dean was going to have to accept, pretty soon, that Sam was going to be making his own decisions in the near future, without asking for permission.

Although, for now, his brother still had authority over him, and Sam had to acknowledge that.

"So how long am I grounded?"

Sam wasn't expecting the derisive snort that came out of his brother's mouth, or the irritation in his eyes. Dean was shaking his head again, as if he was dealing with recalcitrant toddler.

"As if you give a shit about what I tell you to do," Dean sneered. "Why start now? You're just going to do what you want to anyway."

"Dean, c'mon, man," Sam tried to reason, feeling even more guilty, "That's not true."

Now his brother turned to him and his eyes flared angry again.

"Yeah, it is. No matter what I do for you. No matter how many times I fight for you. Or how many times I've gone to bat for you with Dad, you don't appreciate a goddamn thing."

Dean rubbed his face and got up, shutting the television off.

"You're happy to let me do everything to get you what you want, but you have _no_ problem shitting all over my trust if stands in your way. Do you _any idea_ of what it took to get Dad...you know what? Never mind."

"I _do_ appreciate what you do," Sam protested, feeling his face flush again. " _Everything_. The guilt of it all eats me up sometimes." And there was painful truth to those words.

Now Dean turned again and smiled, lips pursed in a sinister sneer. "Oh yeah. I could really tell just how much when I got back to the home I tried to make for us and found you gone. _Again_."

"I told you, Dean. I had to go," Sam muttered quietly, averting his gaze to avoid seeing the pain on his brother's face."

"Oh yeah," Dean said coldly. "And exactly _where_ was that again?"

Sam didn't answer. Couldn't answer, because he knew that to do so would only make things worse than they already were.

They didn't speak for a minute while Dean cleaned up the take-out containers and Sam fiddled with the remote.

"What did Dad say when you told him?"

And Dean laughed again, in a way that was really beginning to rattle Sam.

"I didn't tell Dad."

Sam's eyes went wide, because it wasn't like his brother to not immediately inform their father of anything this big. Generally at length and in painfully minute detail.

"He's not answering again?" Sam asked, now worried. "Do you think he's okay?"

"He's fine," Dean answered, and his voice was tired. "I talked to him this morning."

Sam shook his head, confused and disbelieving.

"So why did..."

His brother wheeled around quickly and grabbed Sam by the shoulder and got right into his face.

"Why? _Seriously_?" Dean huffed and shoved Sam away hard, pushing him roughly against the back of the sofa. "Man. And you're supposed to be the smart one."

"Don't do that," Sam mumbled, looking down at the floor."

"Do _what_?"

Sam swept his eyes back up and frowned at his brother.

"Don't talk about yourself like you're not smarter than I am. I hate that."

On another day, those words might have cracked Dean's hard outer shell, but tonight they just seemed hollow to his ears. If Sam thought that Dean was smarter than he was, the little shit wouldn't have pulled a fast one on him, and the notion just pissed Dean off further.

He contemplated just getting into bed and ignoring his little brother, but he didn't. It was taking more energy than he had in him to maintain his level of anger. Sam, for all of his freaky brains, had no idea of how much trouble he caused, but maybe he should.

"Dad wouldn't have settled for whipping your ass and putting you on lock down for this, Sam," he spat out, getting back in the kid's face. "He'd be packing up the house right now, and you'd be cuffed to his fucking truck until you were collecting social security! Don't you _get_ that?"

"But, Uncle Bobby..."

"Bobby isn't going to say shit," Dean snapped. "So, congratulations. You just made liars out of both of us."

"Dean," Sam began, realization dawning on him. "I'm..."

" _Sam_ , if you say you're sorry one more time, I'm going to punch your fucking face again. You get me?"

Dean raked his hand through his spiked hair and shut his eyes tightly.

"Just go to bed already. I can't do this anymore."

Sam caught himself before he apologized again, and simply nodded, getting into the bed on the far side of the wall and rolling over, pulling the blankets up as far as he could. He could hear Dean washing up in the bathroom before shutting the lights off and climbing into his own bed.

Neither of them really slept that night.

Dean woke him up at six in the morning, eager to get going for the eighteen hour drive back to Sioux Falls. By the time Sam was dressed and out of the bathroom, he noticed that the pillows and comforter that had been on his bed were gone and so were the duffels. Dean came back in the room and gave it a quick once over.

"Let's go."

Putting on his coat, Sam followed his brother outside and went to open the passenger door, when Dean stopped him.

"You're in the back."

Startled, Sam frowned. "What? Why?"

"You didn't sleep."

Sam looked in the back and saw that the motel bedding had been arranged on the rear seat. He wasn't sure if it was a gesture of kindness or a punishment exile. Probably a bit of both.

"Can't we just talk," he asked quietly, a note of pleading in his voice. This distance between them was killing him.

"Sure, Sam," Dean responded, too brightly to be genuine. "Where'd you go this weekend?"

The younger brother sighed. "I'll tell you. I _promise_. Just not today."

Dean just shook his head and scoffed. "Well, that's all _I_ wanna talk about today. So get your ass in the back and get some sleep so I can drive already."

Neither of them was going to budge. Sam knew it, and any attempt to keep up this line of conversation was just going to make things worse, and it was going to be a tough day as it was. He opted for the coward's way out and climbed into the back and laid down.

It was a _long_ trip back.

They only stopped a few times for coffee, fuel, fast food and to use the restroom. Dean didn't say a word, and Sam didn't push, even when he climbed into the passenger seat in the front after their last stop and his brother allowed it. Dean just kept the music playing, although he kept the volume down, and Sam knew he was doing it out of consideration for Sam's still present flu symptoms.

It was these subtle ever-present gestures of kindness and affection that kept Sam's chest pounding with guilt and hurt. Even pissed off, his big brother was his big brother, and Sam didn't want to keep upsetting him with his silence, but telling the truth would be so much worse. There was just simply no reason to hurt Dean with the idea that Sam was even considering to go to California.

Right now, Sam was just a lying and inconsiderate little asshole, and Dean would be able to forgive that after a while. What he wouldn't be able to forgive was a betrayal and abandonment, and until Sam had an offer, he wasn't going to break his brother's heart.

It was dark and late when they finally made it back home. Dean had to be hurting from all the hours behind the wheel. As strong and durable as he was, he was still human and needed rest, but he didn't give any indication that he was as wrecked as Sam knew he had to be.

Sam snapped on the overhead light in the living room when they got inside, ready to put his things down and head straight to bed when Dean's cold voice stopped him.

"Two weeks. No car. No phone. No computer and no study group. You're at school, you're at home and in bed by nine. Period."

Sam glanced at his brother for a second. Could see the tiredness in his eyes and the hurt pinch of his forehead.

"Okay."

He turned towards the stairs and was stopped again. This time his brother's voice was quiet and watery.

"You could have told me. Told me anything. I would have taken you, no questions asked. You didn't have to run, Sam. Not from me." Dean looked up at him, and Sam could see the shimmer of wetness in his brother's eyes. "I've always had your back. I hope it was worth it."

Then Dean racked his shoulders back, wiped his face and headed up the stairs, leaving Sam behind without another word. The little brother dropped boneless to the couch and buried his face in his hands, suddenly feeling like maybe it really hadn't been.

/


	11. March 2001

_Is this another Flagstaff, Sam?_

/

The first time Sam asks about his mother, he is five years old.

Dad was away on a "business" trip for a couple of days, and the two brothers were watching television at Uncle Bobby's house.

Sam had always loved Superman, and had scoffed with a child's unbending certainty at his brother's annoying insistence that Batman was _the best_. But, of course, it was ridiculous. In the little boy's eyes, there simply was no superhero that could come close to the strength and bravery of the Man of Steel.

Even after breaking his arm a few months earlier by jumping off the tool shed behind the motel where they were living at the time, Sam still idolized him and wanted nothing more than to be just like him. Young and silly, with the sleeves of Dean's red flannel tied around his neck like a cape, and convinced he could fly.

Flipping through the channels at the salvage yard, Dean had breathed a sigh of relief to find the original Christopher Reeves _Superman_ just beginning, knowing that his kid brother would willingly sit for an hour or two of rapt attention as he watched his favorite good guy on the screen. Sammy could be annoyingly chatty a lot of the time. With an insatiable curiosity that left his big brother floundering and weary from the endless stream of questions constantly directed at him.

From the moment he could speak, Sam had always been overly observant for a kid. He studied people with a clinical interest, forehead crinkling in thought and tiny rosebud mouth pursed in concentration as he attempted to suss out information and comprehension. During the movie that day he had fixated his single minded focus specifically on the character of Martha Kent for some reason.

Especially intrigued by how she cared for and doted on her adopted alien son, and was a source of support and comfort for young Clark.

Dean didn't notice it at the time. Sammy was quiet and engaged and, for a few moments, the big brother could lose himself in his own thoughts and worries for his father's safety. Only minimally comforted by the fact that Dad always came back, no matter how long he was gone. Tall, strong and invincible, and able to make his firstborn feel truly safe after time spent kicking evil's ass.

In Dean's eyes, neither Superman nor Batman had _anything_ on John Winchester.

When the final credits rolled, Sam, with a wisdom far beyond his years, had bluntly asked his big brother why Superman, tough, strong and invincible Superman, had needed a mom to watch over him, and the Winchester brothers did not.

Dean was shocked into silence for a brief few seconds. Only nine years old himself, worried about their dad and still bleeding and raw on the inside from his mother's fiery death. He had lashed out in anger against his tiny sibling for having the nerve to bring her up. A reaction so singularly rare in their lives that Sammy had burst into inconsolable tears, ducking under a small corner table and curling up into little ball of misery.

In the middle of the screaming and crying chaos, Uncle Bobby had come running into the room, wide eyed and wondering who was killing who. It had taken a moment, but eventually he caught the gist. In one of the only few times he was ever truly annoyed with Dean, the salvage man had dragged Dean into the kitchen and parked his butt in a corner while he coaxed Sammy out from underneath the table.

Sam had cried himself out on his uncle's lap until he was so exhausted he fell asleep. Listening to his little brother's distress, and knowing it was his fault, Dean had stood military straight facing the peeling wallpaper of the kitchen while his own tears coursed silently down his cheeks.

Later that night, after Bobby had gone to sleep, Dean gently tugged his little brother out of his twin bed in the room the boys shared and put a cautionary finger against his lips to keep him quiet. He helped Sammy slip on his shoes and together they crept down the stairs and out the front door into the salvage yard.

Dean held his little brother's hand tightly as they made their way through the endless rows of wrecks until they came to a light blue Mustang with a small trellis of dying weeds creeping up the sides. Grabbing Sam under the arms, Dean helped him climb onto the hood and then clambered up after him. Together they lay side by side, backs pressed against the windshield as Dean pointed his finger into the brightly lit night sky.

"Our Mom does watch over us, Sammy," Dean had said, his voice hushed with reverence. "She's up there in those stars watching us right now."

And Sam had curled up against his brother's side, wanting desperately to believe that it was true.

"What about Daddy?" Sam had asked, head drooping against his brother's shoulder. "Who watches over him?"

Dean's heart had clenched, because Sammy still didn't know how dangerous John's life was when he wasn't with them, and he couldn't understand why their father was gone so much. All he knew was that he missed his dad.

"Mom watches over Dad too," Dean answered, with more confidence than he felt. "He can see the same stars we do. Even when he's not with us."

And they had fallen asleep together on that old muscle car, with happier thoughts of their parents replacing the sadness and worry that usually engulfed them.

That had been the start of Sam's love of astronomy.

The same fascination that never went away as the years passed, and was the foundation of their ritual of star gazing together in open fields as they traveled across the country. A quiet peaceful time of observation and comfort, when they could pretend for a few moments that all the members of their family were watching out for each other.

No matter how far the distance.

It shouldn't have surprised anyone that Sam chose to strike out for a place like Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff when he was angry and hurting and subconsciously needed to connect with his mother and father.

/

The alarm clock next to his bed was glowing at him accusingly.

Neon red numbers reading out 9:23 casting the only break in the complete blackness of the moonless night blanketing Sam's bed. Laying listlessly on his stomach, arms curled around his pillow and blanket dragged up around his waist. Eyes drifting toward the thin bar of light under his door, he blinked back the waves of drowsiness muddling his mind.

It's been six days since they got back from Elko.

Six long days and nights of getting the silent treatment from his brother. Six days of nothing but one or two syllable commands. _Wake up_. _Breakfast_. _Eat_. _School_. _PT_. _Homework_. _Dinner. Bed_. Literally the only words coming out of Dean's mouth these days.

Sam was beginning to feel like a fucking Cocker Spaniel.

Every attempt to engage his brother in any sort of real dialogue was coldly ignored. Dean went through the motions of their home life without question or comment. Morning runs and afternoon PT were done without speaking unless it was necessary to give instruction on technique, which was rare since they had been going through the same routines for years.

Sam was driven to and from school everyday without a word. Not even a _See you at five, Sammy_ or an _Everything go okay, today?_ Meals were put on the table without Sam's request or input. Not that he had any sort of appetite anyway, but the consumption of food was, apparently, still required.

He managed to get an entire sentence out of his brother two days ago when Sam's stressed and acid filled stomach had balked at the cheeseburger put in front of him. Dean didn't even look at him, but when Sam pushed the plate away, a low growl from across the table surprised him.

" _You're not getting up until at least half that is gone."_

And Sam had known from the tone that he would still be sitting at the table until the early hours of dawn if he didn't obey.

Even if his brother had to tie him to the freakin' chair and force it down his throat, one way or another Sam would be eating it. Still, it had been the most Dean had spoken to him at once in days, so he choked down half the burger and somehow managed to keep it down too.

Nighttime was cruel.

Sam spent the majority of the daytime hours sneaking triple red eyes and energy drinks to keep awake because at night, with his mind guilty, depressed and wandering, sleep was completely eluding him. So he was perpetually exhausted, yet jittery. Lack of sleep made his stomach dance and flip, which only made food less palatable, which made the caffeine and sugar he was existing on have a greater effect in unnerving him.

It was a vicious cycle.

Each night he had gone upstairs, after hours studying at the kitchen table, to brush his teeth and change. Then on his knees for his nightly one sided chat with whatever higher power was listening. Begging for an end to the unbreachable wall of tension between himself and his sibling.

Then getting into bed and shutting the light off promptly at nine o'clock as required. Only to toss and turn, rubbing his eyes and temples trying to shut out the nagging voice in his mind chastising him for bringing all of this on himself, as well as the other petulant voice that was angry because his brother was being an unreasonable dick.

Sam shut the last voice down especially hard. Dean had every right to be mad.

The nights would have been easier to get through if he could just immerse himself in a book. A few weeks ago Dean had surprised him with a copy of _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ and Sam had been waiting for an opportunity to read it as a way to wind down at night. Sam had only mentioned wanting the fourth book in the series once or twice in passing, but somehow, like he always did, his big brother retained that little piece of information long enough to remember to buy it.

Dean was the one that gave him the giant flashlight, so that he could do just that and not break Dad's rule on lights out, and now it just sat on his dresser mocking him. Reminding him of how often Dean went out of his way to do small kind gestures, and not only since they moved to Sioux Falls either, but throughout their entire lives.

Keeping that in mind, this time Sam wasn't going to skirt the rules.

This wasn't just an arbitrary exhibit of his father's alpha male authority over his youngest son.

This was a punishment.

One that Sam had well and truly earned for himself, and he needed to own it. _All_ of it. Especially since, all things considered, his brother had been extremely lenient with him. Two weeks of lock down was nothing considering that Sam had been certain he wouldn't be allowed out of the house until his eighteenth birthday after the stunt he pulled.

Not to mention saving Sam from their father's wrath which, apparently, would have been far greater than the younger brother had imagined, and Sam could imagine quite a lot.

He wasn't going to cheat and read in bed, even though the long hours of darkness and silence were mentally too bright and deafening in the chaos of his guilty mind. Too much quiet and stillness to reinforce his own selfishness and disregard for his brother's fear and concern. That was probably the point, he supposed.

At his age, a mandatory bedtime of ten was already degrading enough but, although annoyed, Sam hadn't been particularly surprised because it was just another one of the endless examples of his father's heavy handed control over his sons' every waking moment. The same control that was fueling the vestiges of Sam's desire to escape.

Dean was twenty-two and John still had him running around in circles at his command, and Sam would have been kidding himself if he didn't accept that Dad would use every trick in his paternal overlord tool box to make this _normal_ year as constricting as possible.

Being confined to his room an hour earlier than that was purely mean spirited retribution on his brother's part.

Not that Sam didn't prefer the privacy of his own room. A luxury that had never really existed in his life before. Under other circumstances, he would have been more than happy to hide away among his books and his studies without his brother's exhausting energy bouncing off the walls.

Of course, now that he was actually _required_ to be in his room, it only served to irritate him more because Sam hated the feeling of not having a choice.

This particular restriction rankled Sam because he suspected it was more a case of Dean really just wanting Sam out of sight and out of mind. From the minute he came home from school at night until he went back in the morning. The knowledge of that hurt Sam more than he thought possible because, while they could fight and bicker, the brothers had always been best friends as well.

Right now Dean simply didn't want to see him or engage him, and it was glaringly obvious that the earlier he could get Sam upstairs and out of his presence, the better.

Sometimes, as Sam lay on his bed and brooded, he gave pause to wonder how much he was going to miss his brother when he was away at school, if the distance between them right now was absolutely killing Sam when they were still living in the same house.

How bad would it be when they were physically parted?

On those few occasions when Sam had been left behind while Dad and Dean hunted, he had ached for his brother's return, unable to deal with the pain of abandonment. As a child with few constants in his life, the absence of the biggest one was devastating, and Sam had found himself willing to join the hunt just so they wouldn't be apart.

He was older now, but it didn't mean he needed the comfort of his brother's companionship any less.

Dean's attitude towards this whole thing, while not entirely unexpected, was truthfully pissing Sam off a little too. Even though he rationally knew that it shouldn't. Sam was in the wrong here, and he had to admit that to be fair. It was pure bullshit that he had a family where he was forced to hide his collegiate ambitions, and he felt perfectly justified in doing what he needed to do for his own future and would make no apologies about it.

That didn't change the fact that he lied, _repeatedly_ , to his brother.

Or that he left home when he wasn't allowed to, breaking a million rules in the process to do so. The brothers may have been raised in a very unorthodox environment, but they had always had rules to obey regardless.

 _Plenty_ of them actually.

It wouldn't be right for Sam to complain one minute about how abnormal their family was, and then the next minute take advantage of that when it benefited him.

The plain truth was that he was still only seventeen and, like it or not, still a minor that was not allowed to just go off and do as he pleased. None of his _normal_ friends would have been able to drive cross country alone without permission and gotten away with it without repercussions. Dean still had partial custody of him for another three months, and even though he was Sam's brother and not his father, Sam felt obligated to respect his authority for several reasons.

His brother worked hard and helped Dad pay for the house and Sam's school. Food, clothes and a million other things that Sam didn't need to worry about, but got the benefit of just the same like other kids. Dean had always put Sam's needs and happiness before his own. Had always done whatever he could to make his little brother's life a little easier, a little safer.

Dean was responsible for most of the really happy memories in Sam's life as well.

It wasn't unreasonable for the older brother to expect just a little cooperation and honesty out of Sam. Sometimes, you just get so used to having a steady presence in your life, you find yourself taking advantage of it always being around and, as Sam was finding out, it might not be there after all if you make hurtful and inconsiderate choices.

As adult as Sam felt he was becoming, he also accepted that he had to do as he was told or face the consequences until he was paying his own way. As the youngest, he had always been taken care of, and it was pretty even between his father and brother of just who was doing the caring as Sam grew up.

Even college kids still followed rules when it was the parents paying tuition and expenses, and since Sam had already made the decision to continue to compromise and defer to his father once he was in college, he couldn't very well justify blowing off his brother now while Sam was still an uncontributing minor in a home Dean was paying for.

After all, it was the _normal_ way. Another uncomfortable truth that Sam was realizing the more time he spent as a civilian.

The bruise on his jaw was already faded, and thankfully no one had asked any embarrassing questions about it. Sam was prepared to give the standard _sparring with my brother_ answer, because all of his friends knew that he and Dean worked out and trained together. He forgave his brother for punching him immediately. It had surprised him, and he was hurt that Dean had done it, but Sam wasn't holding a grudge about it.

Honestly, if Dean had worried him as badly as he knew he had worried Dean, Sam might have felt like throwing a couple of punches of his own.

Sam had told his study group that he broke curfew so they understood about the suspension of dinner and reviews at the Winchester house and also the loss of Sam's car. The girls in the group lamented the missed opportunities to spend time around Sam's cute brother, and the guys sympathized the lack of the beautiful Camaro.

He was hopeful that Dean would allow it to start back up again, but Sam wasn't going to push if his brother wasn't feeling especially generous about hosting his school friends anymore.

So for another eight days, and even longer if his brother decided two weeks was insufficient, which Sam was okay with if he did, the younger brother would keep his tail firmly tucked between his legs and behave himself. Uncle Bobby still had his car at the salvage yard with the keys. Sam's phone was handed to him in the morning before school and then taken back and returned to Dean's pocket when they came home in the afternoon.

No matter how pissed his brother was, Sam wouldn't be left without a means to call him in case there was trouble.

Sam did his training and then did his chores without complaint. He studied in the kitchen, steered clear of the computer alcove, and then went to his room on time without being told. Voicing an apology only seemed to make his brother even angrier, so eventually Sam just stopped trying.

It was Dean's silence that hurt the most.

Except for his habit of asking too many questions of his brother, Sam had always been a relatively shy and quiet kid. When you had a sibling that was pure energy, your entire environment tended to thrum with a constant stream of noise, whether you liked it or not. It had never been necessary for Sam to initiate conversation or liveliness in their household.

Dean singing REO Speedwagon in the shower, off key, at full volume. Using the mixing spoons in the kitchen to pound out the beat to every Def Leopard song while the pasta was boiling. Jumping up and down on the couch yelling _Sammy you gotta see this_ during wrestling matches on TV. Dancing around with the mop, a la Tom Cruise in _Risky Business_ , while cleaning the floors with _Old Time Rock 'N Roll_ blaring in the background.

Their house was _never_ quiet.

Even when his big brother's ambient noise was driving Sam crazy enough to jam his headphones on and crank up whatever musician had caught his fancy at the time. As annoying as it was, it still made Sam smile and shake his head when watching Dean play air guitar in an attempt to get him to laugh.

They have fought before, like all siblings do.

Yelled, screamed and pushed each other around. Threatened each other, ratted on each other to Dad and trashed each other's possessions in anger. Even through all of that, Dean never ignored him. There were times when Sam wished he _would,_ because Dean screaming at him only made Sam more angry and prone to do more mean things, but there was never this cold silence.

Except that one time.

Was this another Flagstaff?

 _Maybe._

It was beginning to feel the same if Sam was to compare the aftermath of each event.

Up until Dean had made that comment on the phone, Flagstaff had been a good memory in Sam's mind. One of his best, actually.

Not that it had started out that way.

/

That had been the school year when Sam's passion for soccer had really taken off. He enjoyed the thrill of the sport. The adrenaline rush of doing something fun that wasn't training or monster related. He loved being part of a team where his only foes were other human boys striving for nothing more than kicking the next goal.

At the end of the soccer season he had been a student at a junior high school in Pittsfield, Mass and his team went on to win the Division Championship. That little trophy had been Sam's most precious possession, and still had a place of honor in his bedroom in Sioux Falls.

Of course, the Winchesters never stayed in any one town too long. Quite frankly, it was a miracle that Sam had been in Pittsfield long enough to finish out the season in the first place.

That had been in the fall. By the time the end of the school year came around, John had parked the boys at an extended stay motel outside of El Paso. There had been multiple reported sightings and encounters with what John believed to be chupacabras with a taste for human blood along the Rio Grande.

Early summer in that neck of the woods was dry, hot and downright _miserable_.

John was preoccupied with his research, to absolutely no one's surprise. A little more intense than normal because the kills were becoming increasingly violent and randomly spaced. His tolerance for Sam's mouthiness and poor attitude was significantly lower than usual, and there had already been several fights between them that left all three Winchesters agitated and on edge.

All Sam had wanted to do was go to soccer camp with some of the other boys from his latest school.

He tried to reason with his father, but his pleas were falling on deaf ears. John hadn't wanted to hear about how close by it was. Close enough for Dean to check on him with regularity, even without a car to use. Or that Dean had already told Sam that there was enough money squirreled away in Dean's small activity fund to pay for the admission.

John wasn't having any of it, telling his son in no uncertain terms that he would be laying low at the motel until the hunt was over. Sam had raged over the unfairness of it, demanding to know why he couldn't just be a normal kid at camp for once, and getting nothing but his father barking back at him to _mind your tone_ in return, with a lingering underlining threat of additional PT if Sam didn't start showing some respect.

Although Dean had offered the money for camp, and had originally helped Sam plead his case, after their father put his foot down, Sam's big brother did as he always did and backed Dad's play, angering the youngest Winchester even more. It was beyond frustrating to Sam when his brother acquiesced so easily. He knew that Dean recognized that their father's position on the subject wasn't rational or necessary but, like always, Dean toed the line where John's orders were concerned.

By the time their father was ready to leave for the hunt, Sam's thirteen year old hot temper and emotions were all over the place.

When Dad had gone to hug him goodbye, Sam had pushed his father away for the first time. He called John a _Dictatorial Control Freak_ who was _ruining my life_ and told his father _don't even_ _bother coming back_. Then he had stomped into the motel bathroom and slammed the door.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Sam had wrapped his arms around himself and spent several minutes heaving deep angry breaths, waiting for his dad to barge in and scream and punish him for his disrespect and hurtful words. Although Sam had regretted what he said, almost the second the words were out of his mouth, he was still furious with John.

As the minutes passed, Sam had mentally worked himself up for yet another battle of wills with his tyrant of a father. Ready, willing and able to point out all the ways that only a crappy dad would deny his son a little summer fun.

But John never came in.

It was almost a half hour later that his big brother had finally wrenched the door open and bodily tossed Sam out into the main room so Dean could take a leak. The main room was empty, and John's go-bag and journal were gone. Through the window, Sam saw only empty space where the Impala was usually parked. For a brief second, the realization that his father had indeed left without another word to his youngest son shattered Sam's young heart.

Knowing that John's absences could always very well likely result in Sam never seeing his father again, the thought took the boy's breath away, and he was momentarily gutted that his dad might die thinking that Sam didn't actually want him to come back.

The pain of that idea was too overwhelming to deal with, and Sam pushed it back down deep inside and instead let his residual anger over their fights bubble back to the surface, since hostility and resentment were far easier to deal with than a child's fear and desperation. By the time Dean came back in the room, Sam had already worked up another head of steam over his father's unfair mandates and frequent absences.

Dean was clearly pissed and ignoring Sam, and the older boy's refusal to engage in a verbal sparring match ramped up Sam's hostility level even more. He flopped down on the bed they were sharing, crossed his arms and seethed with the righteous indignation only a temperamental and tenacious thirteen year old could summon.

"Figures he'd just take off again," Sam spat out, blinking back tears. "Just dumps us here like luggage as always."

Dean huffed and shook his head in irritation as he rummaged around in the small unit fridge for something to put together for dinner.

"Yeah, well he left you a little parting gift, _Sam_ -sonite. You get to run laps every morning before breakfast until he gets back."

Sam's eyes had flared then, because the weather had been stifling and miserable, and while he would have been happy to run drills at soccer camp, having to trot endless circles around their motel was not how he was planning to start the summer holiday.

He spent the rest of that day, and the next few besides, seething behind the cover of a book. Dean, for once, wasn't attempting to cheer him up. He made sure that Sam was eating, and that the laps Dad had instructed that Sam run were done faithfully, but other than that, he left his little brother to his brooding.

There was a bar/pool hall within walking distance of their motel, and Dean had started to get into the habit of going out and hunting up some action in the evenings, often not returning until the early hours of the morning. Sam wasn't going to admit it, but his brother's frequent absences were upsetting him. Sam liked his independence, but he also felt better when his brother and father were home safe.

There was a standard policy in their family that the boys weren't supposed to worry about their father missing his estimated return date until three full days had passed. It wasn't unusual for John to be gone significantly longer than anticipated, because sometimes things took longer to wrap up than expected, but Dad would always make sure to call and let them know.

When the third day of overtime in El Paso passed, and then the fourth, and then the fifth and there was no phone call, a blanket of panic engulfed the shabby little motel room of the Winchester brothers.

Dean stopped going out and took to sitting at the table next to the window and staring out into the parking lot as if he could make his father magically appear by sheer force of his will alone. Sam was stubbornly clinging to his lingering resentment, but his resolve was beginning to crack under the pressure of a son's anxiety over his dad's safety.

The regret over their last words was eating him up inside and making him both angrier and more clingy in equal measures.

Lost in his own stress, Dean didn't respond well to his little brother's scared eyes and shaky questions asking every other minute if he thought their father was okay. Whereas he would normally attempt to comfort his brother and reassure him that nothing could hurt their dad, this time he barked and snapped and repeatedly pushed Sam away.

Fear had always sparked anger in Sam, and almost a week after John's missed return date and still no communication, Sam's high rising panic caused him to finally blow after his morning lap run. He had been tired already from lack of sleep and in no mood to act rationally.

It was too hot to really eat anything and he was simply mentally exhausted. He had slammed back into the motel room, sweat pouring off of him from the heat of the pounding morning sun, and flopped down on their bed in agitation.

"This is bullshit, Dean! I'm sick of waiting for Dad to get back so I don't have to sweat my ass off every single morning."

And Dean had turned to him with fury flashing in his green eyes and leveled Sam with a glare.

"Maybe Dad woulda come back if you didn't tell him not to, you obnoxious little shit! Ever think of that?"

Then Dean had stormed out and slammed the door behind him to take up watch outside in the parking lot. Sam peeked out the window and saw his big brother standing stock still on the hot cement, his arms crossed over his chest with his back to Sam.

The younger boy tried to maintain his earlier outrage, but the effort was too hard and he was exhausted and scared. Shaking slightly, he stripped off his clothes and headed into the bathroom. He turned the water on and pushed himself under it, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles. With the noise of the cascading water to hide behind so his brother couldn't hear him, Sam finally lost his battle with tears and cried.

Dean didn't talk to him the rest of the day.

He made Sam a bologna and cheese sandwich for lunch and paid for pizza delivery for dinner, but they ate in uncomfortable silence. Later that night he went back out, leaving Sam upset and alone in the motel to stew. It was almost four in the morning before the older boy came back. Clearly drunk and smelling like smoke and sex, crumpled bills of various denominations spilling out of his pockets.

Sam got him into their father's long abandoned bed. Not wanting to share the larger one with a brother that reeked of debauchery, even though the physical closeness had been the only way Sam had been lulled to sleep lately.

Dean's drunken and disheveled appearance was not a first experience in their lives. It was far too familiar. Too much like their father on many occasions. Sam had read about different smells having the ability to prompt memories, and right now all his brother was doing was reminding Sam of all the times their dad had come home in a similar state, and how Sam never wanted to end up the same way.

They didn't talk the next day either, except for a few occurrences of harshly barked sharp words between them, spending it much as they had the previous one. The difference was that Sam's anger was back in full force, and so was the determination that he was getting away from this life of never ending fear and violence and booze and blood and loss.

When Dean got ready to go back out again that night, Sam had begged with his eyes for his brother to stay home, but the older boy ignored the silent pleading and walked out without a word. Hurt, frustrated and fed up, Sam threw some things in his backpack, grabbed some of the cash Dean kept in the nightstand between the beds, and took off.

It could have been just fate that had him heading towards Flagstaff.

He didn't have a destination in mind as he walked. All he knew was that he was getting away before this life took him over as much as it had his father, and now his brother. There were no buses running at that time of the night, so he headed for a truck stop just outside the edge of the northern part of the city where their motel was located. With any luck, he could persuade a kind hearted trucker to give him a lift.

 _Sam was a skilled liar._

A talent taught to him by his own father, and although the boy couldn't pull it off where his father and brother were concerned, it didn't take long for him to spin a pathetic tale of a kid with an abusive old man, in need of a lift to get him to the safety of his grandmother's house.

An older driver, on a tight schedule but completely taken in with the soul deep earnestness of Sam's puppy dog eyes, took him as far as Tuscon and even gave the kid an extra fifty bucks for bus fare to get him the rest of the way to Sam's stated destination of Phoenix.

Sam actually had no intention of staying in Phoenix.

During the four and a half hour drive to Tuscon he remembered about Uncle Bobby's cabin outside of Flagstaff and Lowell Observatory there. A place that the boy had wanted to visit ever since he first heard about it a few years earlier. It was easy enough to get a bus from Tuscon to Flagstaff, and even easier to find the cabin once he arrived.

Sam had drilled locations and directions into his memory mercilessly during that time with Uncle Bobby the year before, determined that neither he nor his brother would ever be lost on another hunt without shelter and a means to be found by their father. The cabin was a three mile walk from the bus station on the outskirts of town. Set back from the road and partially hidden, you needed to know where you were going to really notice it.

A full service convenience store along the route had a small deli area and a few pre-made pizzas sitting under warming lights. Sam was hungry and he bought one, along with a six pack of Mr. Pibb and a few bags of Funyuns. No one bothered to pay attention to the messy haired thirteen year old, carrying a pizza box with a huge backpack clinging to his small shoulders as he walked down the road.

The cabin itself was nothing remotely fancy. Even the motel room Sam had just left was nicer, although he was loathed to admit it. There was a fair amount of clutter strewn about on every surface. A small kitchen area clearly decorated in the seventies if the avocado green appliances were anything to go by. There was a dingy gray carpet covering the floor and one entire wall blanketed with kitschy postcards from the various tourist traps along Route 66.

Sam had seen most of them during his family's travels back and forth and, for a brief moment, he choked on the memories of his father taking time out to bring the boys for some occasional fun.

Cheap faux wood paneling covered the walls of the bedroom area that wasn't entirely cut off from the one main room. It had a double bed, situated between twin nightstands, and covered with an ugly plaid blanket that made Sam grimace when he saw it. There was already enough plaid in his life as it was.

Fortunately the bedding was clean.

It was one of Uncle Bobby's standing rules that if you were to use one of his places to bunk down, you left it habitable for the next hunter or you didn't bother ever coming back. An inventory of the cabinets in the kitchen produced a few cans of soup and some chili, as well as a box of stale crackers and a fairly decent first aid kit. Sam was good on money for the moment, so he wasn't going to help himself to anything just yet.

It wasn't until he crawled into bed his first night there that he gave real thought about ditching his brother back in El Paso.

Dean had been angry with him for _days_ , just for wanting to go to soccer camp like a regular kid. Sam was hurt that his brother didn't side with him against their father after promising him that Dean would do whatever he could to make sure that Sam could go. Dad was being completely unreasonable, and Sam didn't regret making sure that his father knew exactly what his youngest son thought of his decision on the matter.

Maybe his brother was worried about where he was.

Maybe he wasn't.

Maybe Dean was finally glad to be rid of him for a while so that he could just go out and have a good time without needing to come back and check on Sam. After all, they had left him on his own before, so clearly they knew that he could take care of himself.

It wasn't Sam's fault that Dad didn't come back when he said he was going to.

 _It wasn't_

Even if Sam had been cold and hurtful, and said something intentionally cruel to his father that he didn't really mean _at all_ and wished he could take back immediately, because the very idea of his father being gone, _really gone_ , made his stomach ache and his head pound.

It was _Dad's_ fault for being such a heavy handed controlling asshole, and _Dean's_ fault for never siding with Sam over their father's ridiculous mandates. If that meant that they worried about where Sam was and what he was doing then it was no more than they both deserved.

It wasn't guilt or loneliness that kept Sam awake that first night.

Nope.

Not at all.

The bed was lumpy, and the sheets were scratchy, and there were all of these unfamiliar noises surrounding the cabin that meant that Sam had to stay awake and alert, just like Dad had taught him to be aware of his surroundings at all times.

That was why he tossed and turned all night long, and no other reason.

The next morning, after a lukewarm shower that was all the minimal plumbing seemed capable of providing, Sam had eaten a few slices of cold pizza and shouldered his backpack for the five mile trek to Lowell Observatory.

He spent the entire day and early early evening there, taking all the tours he could because he was a young student and admission was cheap. Admiring the equipment and sitting in rapt fascination of the stories detailing the various discoveries made there.

There was no Dad telling him to hurry up because they had other places to be. No Dean to tease him continuously for being such a little nerd and being excited over spending time listening to a lecture on unmanned space exploration. Even though his big brother would have been paying just as much attention as Sam did.

In total defiance, Sam crossed his arms and racked his shoulders back, refusing to let the whispers telling him that he was scaring his brother get in the way of the good time he was having. Steadfastly pushing back any thoughts of how much Dean would have enjoyed doing this with him, because Dean was still a jerk.

Three days passed while Sam slept as late as he wanted to. Never made his bed _once_. No military corners in his life, _thank you very much._

He ate as much junk food as he could stuff in his face without worrying about his brother either snagging it from him or forcing him to eat something that didn't come wrapped in plastic.

The younger brother hadn't reached the period of his life yet when he started to prefer a healthier style of eating, and with no girls around to impress, he hadn't really cared about the explosion of zits that spread across his forehead.

On the morning of the fourth day, Sam had needed to trek back into town for more pizza, soda and chips, determined that he was going to just pig out and enjoy the fact that he didn't need to train in the hot summer weather. Halfway back to the cabin, a bedraggled Golden Retriever began trotting quietly behind him and Sam picked up the pace a little in case the dog wasn't actually as friendly as he looked.

Once he reached his temporary home, Sam had shut the door firmly behind him, unwilling to chance getting bit when there was no one around to help him with stitches and first aid. But then the sun began to climb higher in the sky and the temperature steadily crept up, and the poor pup was still lying forlornly on the front step looking tired, hungry and panting from the heat.

Sam didn't have it in him to be cruel to a meek and defenseless animal, and really he had always wanted a pet, but of course his father wouldn't allow it.

It started with him carefully putting a bowl of cool water out on the step and watching through the window as the dog greedily lapped it all up in a matter of seconds. A half hour later, it had progressed to another bowl of water and some of the saltine crackers from the cabinet. Then to actually letting the mangy mutt into the cabin to get out of the afternoon sun, and eventually to sharing Sam's pizza for dinner.

The poor thing was ratty and painfully thin, ribs sticking out in blunt testament to his life as an unwanted stray. Sam had coaxed him into the tub for a bath and, once thoroughly wet, the pup was purely skin and bones, thus leading to his new name.

Bones became Sam's constant companion after that.

Happily wagging his tail as Sam went about exploring the woods around the cabin and taking the occasional trip into town for more food and drinks, knowing after the first trip that the boy would also splurge for some treats for the dog too. Once he was bathed and relatively cleaner, Bones had a place in the bed next to his new little master, and together they slept snuggled up to each other every night.

Sam enjoyed his time in Flagstaff, more than he had ever enjoyed any other place he had lived.

He did what he wanted, when he wanted, with no one bossing him around and barking out orders. He curled up in a chair for hours and read books that he picked up from the convenience store's limited rack. He played fetch with Bones and took afternoon naps just because he could. He even tasked himself with writing a detailed report on all of the cool things he had learned at Lowell, just _...because._

At night he would sit out on the front step and gaze at the stars and think of his mom.

He was never really afraid of being out on his own. Even when his second week of his time away from his family slipped by, he wasn't really worried about never seeing them again. Simply put, nothing could hurt his big bad hunter of a father, and John would return when the hunt was finished.

Of that Sam was sure.

He was also sure that somehow his dad would know to come back sooner rather than later. Because Dean needed Dad to be okay, and Sam needed Dad to come to Flagstaff and find him, and for all of John Winchester's many, many faults, he always came when his kids needed him most.

 _Always_

Dean was probably still thoroughly pissed off at Sam, but he would be okay once he realized that Sam being gone was only going to bring their father home faster. The minute John knew that his youngest son was in the wind, he would drop whatever he was doing and go and find his kid, no matter what.

There wasn't a doubt in Sam's mind that his father would know exactly where to look for him, because John knew everything about his sons, and it was only a matter of time before he came crashing through the door of the cabin and took his son home.

Any time now.

Sometimes, in the darkness of the evening, while Sam stared enraptured at the starry sky, he talked to his mother and asked her to try and send his dad a message to get home to Dean. He didn't realize it at the time, but this was the start of his nightly prayer ritual that continued long after he was found. He found comfort in talking out his fears and concerns heavenward, and it would bring a semblance of peace over him that he wasn't alone in the world.

It must have worked too, because just when his second week of adventure finally edged out, Uncle Bobby threw open the door to the cabin, and Sam knew that his father and brother wouldn't be far behind.

Two weeks was a nice vacation from the hunting life. Sam felt rested, relaxed and ready to rejoin his family since he really was beginning to miss them a lot. During the three hours that he and Uncle Bobby waited for Dad and Dean to arrive, he even managed to nag his uncle into finding a good home for the faithful golden retriever than Sam knew he would be forced to leave behind.

When Dad had come barreling through the door, Sam was genuinely happy to see him. His father wasn't even yelling, like Sam had expected him to, or scolding his youngest for taking him away from the job and breaking a million rules designed for his boys' safety.

Dad had just grabbed him up in the biggest hug he had ever given Sam in his life, and the boy had been happy to cling to his father, comforted by the strong arms around him that he missed. The guilt of their last words washing away with their mutual joy in finding each other again. Dean was busy collecting Sam's things and it hadn't even occurred to the younger boy that his brother was neither looking at nor speaking to him at the time.

The little family drove away from Flagstaff as fast as John could gun the Impala's powerful engine. Unwilling to release his youngest, the immensely relieved father had pulled Sam into the front seat between himself and Dean, driving with his left hand while keeping a firm, reassuring right arm around Sam's thin shoulders until they were hours away.

On the outskirts of Albuquerque, they finally stopped and checked in for the night.

Under the lull of the Impala's comforting growl, Sam had snoozed during the trip, a wave of exhaustion and relief having overtaken him outside of Flagstaff's city limits. Dad picked up a to-go bag of tacos and they ate at the table in the motel room with Sam eating twice his usual limit having grown tired of pizza and Funyuns days ago.

It was okay because Dean hadn't wanted any, anyway, going outside to sit at a picnic table near their end unit in the cool night air. Dad told Sam that Dean was tired, and the younger boy didn't have any reason to doubt it. Besides, Sam was still not completely over his annoyance with his big brother just yet.

Dean hadn't even bothered to hug him when they got to the cabin, although Sam had thought that the brother he adored would have missed Sam as much as Sam had missed _him_.

After dinner, with Dean still outside, Dad had finally reprimanded his wayward son for taking off and scaring them so badly. John took his belt off, yanked Sam over his knee and whipped the holy hell out of his little butt. While it wasn't fun, Sam wasn't even really upset by it. He knew what he had done and that there would be repercussions, and even so he wouldn't have changed a thing about his time away.

Except for maybe finding a way to bring Bones with them.

And it was okay, because when Dad was done, he had nudged Sam into bed and then sat down beside him, leaning back against the headboard and carding his fingers through Sam's hair until he had fallen into the best sleep he had in weeks.

The Cold War between the brothers continued for a few more days as they traveled north to Montana towards another hunt. Dean wasn't talking to Dad either so Sam didn't feel singled out as the car ate up the miles towards the Flathead National Forrest. What John had originally suspected to be a wendigo really did turn out to be a grizzly after all, and with the job aborted, they bunked down at a cabin owned by a friend of Uncle Bobby's outside of Whitefish.

It was clear that John needed some downtime, and no one seemed surprised to find their father hitting the Jack a little harder than normal after all the excitement.

A few days into their stay, Sam had grumped to no one in particular that they were going to miss out on any July Fourth celebrations being the middle of nowhere like they were. Dean didn't say a word to him, but when their father was well and truly passed out, the older brother had snaked the keys to the Impala and taken off for a few hours.

When Dean returned, Dad was still snoring in a chair off to the side, and didn't give any indication that he would be waking up any time soon. Dean had dragged Sam out to the car and opened the trunk revealing an entire crate of fireworks and Sam finally saw some happiness and light in his brother's eyes.

They jumped in the car and roared off down the dirt road, driving for almost ten miles until they came across the perfect empty field. Sam was practically giddy as he hauled the crate out of the trunk and grabbed two Roman Candles for them. Dean had lit them and the two brothers stood side by side in the vast emptiness of the field and watched the sparks shoot into the air.

Sam had genuinely loved his big brother at that moment, and the lingering hurt of missing him so much the previous weeks and then the cold reception in Flagstaff melted away as easily as ice in the summer sun.

Dean was forever finding a million ways to make his little brother happy, even when he had to skirt their father to do it, and Sam had flung his arms around his brother's waist and pressed his face adoringly into Dean's chest, never wanting to let go.

But there was a crate of fireworks still waiting for them, and the lure was too tempting. Sam lit them all up and together the brothers watched the spectacular display, both of them beaming from ear to ear. Sam had been so happy that he ran out into the field and danced around in the technicolor shower of exploding lights as his big brother, looking truly happy for the first time in a long time, watched over him.

Even when the field caught fire, and the boys had to jump back into the Impala and haul ass, Dean was still laughing hysterically, and this time it was his arm around Sam's shoulders as they drove away.

Those had always been Sam's memories of his time in Flagstaff, but now, over four years later, he couldn't help wondering if he had actually missed something very important.

/

It was getting harder to ignore his little brother's hurt face.

To be honest, the gulf between then was killing Dean too. It didn't make it any easier to know that he could stop it any time he wanted to. That one word from him could bridge the gap and make Sammy smile again.

Sam had been trying so hard to get them to talk, and it was tearing Dean up inside every time he forced himself to turn away. He didn't need to actually look at the kid to know that his thin shoulders slumped and his shaggy head bowed in resignation when none of his pleas for communication were granted.

It's not like Dean was being a jerk on purpose.

A lifetime spent making sure that his little brother was spared as much pain and suffering as possible was a habit that was hard to break, especially when he was the one hurting the kid with his silence. It left a gnawing pain in his gut, and he wanted nothing more than to give his little brother a hug and tell him that it was okay and move on like nothing had happened.

But he couldn't do that this time.

Maybe it was a combination of his still hovering resentment over Sam's blatant selfishness regarding his trip, and a primal human reaction of inflicting retaliatory pain on the one that had hurt him so badly.

That was probably part of his reticence to make peace.

The primary reason was that he was hoping that his refusal to talk to his brother at all would finally push the kid into sharing the details of where he was and what he was doing. Not that his little brother wasn't entitled to _some_ privacy, but this was obviously a big deal considering the lengths Sam had gone to, to pull it off.

Dean was going to need some real information on something that major, and he was going to need it _quick._

Sammy said it wasn't dangerous, but he was still just a snot nosed kid, and sometimes Dean's little brother had no real concept of what constituted danger in the non-hunting world.

Because Sam was a good boy at heart.

Kind, considerate and compassionate, and he desperately tried to see the best in everyone. That kind of gentle faith in people could get him killed if he wasn't careful, and it was up to Dean to make sure that _never_ happened.

By virtue of necessity, and baptism literally by fire, Dean was a little more versed in the evils that existed in nature, not just of the supernatural kind, and it was his job to protect his little brother from being led down the wrong paths in life. If it meant he had to be cruel to get the truth, then that is what he was willing to do. No matter how strained and stressed their relationship was right now.

He could only hope that sooner or later, Sammy would break and spill all. Hopefully before Dean broke himself. Because if he had to spend much more time with his little brother, gutted, subdued and walking on eggshells around him, Dean wouldn't be able to maintain his own stoicism any longer, and that wasn't good for either of them in the long run.

The drive to Elko had been hell.

As physically exhausted as Dean had already been from the hunt and the drive back from Wisconsin, he hadn't even taken the time for a quick nap before heading west. He did phone Bobby before he left, because the salvage man deserved the respect of consideration as his boss if Dean was going to be gone for another couple of days.

As good as his surrogate uncle had been to the brothers, it didn't sit well with Dean to continue to take advantage of his kind nature and generous work hours. He truly hated being the cause of putting the work of the yard behind schedule because his bitchy little brother got a wild hair up his ass, and Dean was genuinely apologetic on the phone.

Bobby clearly sensed the tiredness and agitation in his voice and had ordered Dean, in no uncertain terms, to come and pick him up and they would do the trip together. It wasn't something the older brother had even considered. While he knew with certainty that he would be driving Sam home in the Impala, he hadn't even bothered to give any thought about what would happen with the Camaro.

It was a huge relief when Bobby offered to help him drive out there.

With the two of them at the wheel, they could switch off and sleep for a while without losing any hours on the road. Bobby was more than willing to drive Sam's car back. He had some stops along the way back that he could make, checking on the hunting cabins and picking up supplies. Assuring Dean that there wasn't anything at the salvage yard that required the immediate attention of either of them.

Bobby understood what John's reaction to Sam's disappearing act would be, knowing his old friend as well as he did, and he agreed with Dean that their days in Sioux Falls would be numbered if their father found out. Dean didn't like asking Bobby to lie for them, and the older man didn't particularly want to. As long as John didn't ask any direct questions, Bobby told Dean that he wasn't going to volunteer information.

It was as good a compromise as Dean could ask for.

He barely remembered the trip out there.

Between blearily ticking off the mile markers and trying to get a few minutes of sleep here and there, the older Winchester brother was running on sheer autopilot. Dean couldn't decide whether to be more petrified for his little brother's safety or of his father's wrath.

All he could think of was what John's reaction had been when Sam had run off to Flagstaff years earlier.

/

It was exhausting at times, playing referee between Dad and Sammy. For two highly intelligent people, neither one of them seemed to possess the capacity to see the side of the other in an argument. Unfortunately for Dean, he could see both sides with equal clarity, and it was pulling him apart at the seams to be forced to continuously choose sides.

To be fair, most of the time he came down firmly on Dad's side, for the simple reason that John was his father and deserved his respect. Everything Dad did, he did for a reason, and it wasn't Dean's place to question it, even when he disagreed with it.

There _were_ times when he wanted to back his little brother's position, because Dad tended to see life through a very constricting pair of blinders, but it didn't sway Dean's obedience.

Sammy was just a kid, and a fairly spoiled one on occasion at that, and Dean was usually the one caught trying to play peacemaker between the other two Winchesters because otherwise their lives would be nothing but screaming fests and tears and slammed doors.

Dad had his reasons for not letting Sammy go to that fucking soccer camp, and Dean was going to respect that.

Although he would have been happier to have actually had a fair argument to make when Sammy threw his fit and then bitched for a week. His little brother was good at sports and he had really thrived on that team back in Mass. Dean had gone to every game and he didn't give a rat's ass what anyone thought about it.

In his opinion, if you couldn't be bothered to cheer on your little brother, that didn't make you much of a man.

He had already known that things were only going to get uglier as the time came for Dad to leave for the hunt and Sammy was still glaring with rage. What he hadn't been expecting was his little brother to scream at their father to _not bother coming back_.

Then the little brat scampered off to throw a hissy in the bathroom, slamming the door for maximum theatrical emphasis, so he wasn't in the room to see their father's face grow pained and fall. Dean had seen his father in all kinds of dangers, and various states of tension and high emotions, but he had never seen him look so _hurt_ , and it pissed Dean _right the fuck off_.

Of course, Dad being Dad, their father had sucked in one quick harsh breath and then played through the pain. Gathering his stuff and heading for the door, he bit out instructions for Sammy to run every morning until his return. He ran a quick affectionate hand over Dean's head, with one last glance at the closed bathroom door, and then headed out to face God knew what in the desert.

Dean had been fuming on his father's behalf, more than willing and able to rip his little brother a new hole for being such a disrespectful little shit. Why their father had not taken the time to set his younger son straight before he took off, Dean didn't know, but he wasn't prepared to let the kid get away with the attitude any longer.

If that degree of insolence had come out of _Dean_ , John would have salted and burned his ass before the last word had dropped from Dean's tongue.

Sammy pouted in the bathroom for almost a full thirty minutes before Dean decided that enough was enough. The brat wasn't going to hide in the head for the rest of the day and ponder on the unfairness of his poor, sad little life. Dean had barged in and saw the boy sitting limp on the side of the bathtub and, just for a moment, Sammy looked almost as wrecked as their father had, and Dean felt his anger lowering slightly.

It wasn't in his nature to gloss over his kid brother's unhappiness, and he was just about willing to chalk it up to Sammy's reluctance over their father having to take off again. But then Sam had to do the monumentally stupid thing of opening that smart assed mouth of his and pissing Dean right off again. Seriously, it was like living with a human roller coaster.

 _Up and Down_

 _Up and Down_

And truthfully? Right now, Dean wanted off that ride because he was getting sick and tired of it.

The rest of the week didn't get any better. Sam never stopped his litany of complaints and Dean was getting a migraine from the minute they got up in the mornings. Tired of the constant tense atmosphere, the older brother was crawling the walls to get away. It had never been a problem for Dean to leave Sam safely locked in at their motel room and head out to hustle as long as the bar was within walking distance.

He never even usually needed his fake ID either.

Between his acquired smooth tongue and confident swagger, he always managed to get past the bouncers at the doors. Dad had taught him how to be careful around places like that. Dean drank just enough to seem social. He was careful to watch the company being kept by the women that he hit on, and he spent a long time identifying his marks before he dropped himself into a game.

Over the course of a few days, he managed to make some pretty decent money, and there were two opportunities for some sports sex afterwards that he might have taken repeated advantage of if he wasn't feeling obligated to get back to the motel room where his sulky sibling was surely brooding a hole in the wall.

It had only been a few months since Beth had busted his cherry back in Blue Earth, and Dean was extremely pleased to discover that, not only did he genuinely enjoy romping with the ladies, he was well and truly gifted at pleasing them.

With Dad away, this little mouse was looking to _play_.

Of course, once Dad had blown his return date out of the water, Dean was not really in the mood to flirt or hustle anymore.

Preferring to stay behind at the motel and hold vigil for his father's return and keeping an extra sharp eye on his increasingly vocal little brother. An angsty and hormonal thirteen year old on a good day, Sammy wasn't particularly Zen about Dad's missing status, and Dean had known that the kid was a bomb ready to go off.

Sam didn't know that Dean had been calling their father's cell a dozen times a day, getting increasingly more desperate to hear Dad's voice reassuring him that everything was okay. Between John's radio silence and Sam's constant stream of moodiness, it was a mentally taxing tsunami, and eventually Dean had just lost it himself.

 _Maybe Dad woulda come back if you didn't tell him not to, you obnoxious little shit! Ever think of that?_

Dean hadn't meant to lash out at the kid like that. Really he _didn't_. It was just a matter of Sammy saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. And Dean was sorry, _he was_ , but he was still just a kid too, and there was only just so much craziness and stress he could deal with without losing his own shit.

He had gone back out that night and lost himself in a larger quantity of booze than he knew his father would allow.

A less than clear head also drove him into the arms of a late twenty-something barfly with a rented house down the street. Filled with lace, chintz everything, flowered purple sheets and a curious Siamese cat that liked to watch. He barely remembered dragging himself back to the motel room in the middle of the night, and only vaguely recalled how he managed to wind up in his father's discarded bed.

Sammy had bitched at him all the next day, irritating his already widely hungover head and dancing all over the raw nerves that were stretched to the breaking point over the fact that this time John might not actually come home.

Not that Dean was giving up on his father.

He had nothing but confidence in his dad's ability to outsmart, outwit and outrun anything he came up against. But it was one thing to think that, and quite another to pretend that terrible things didn't happen to good people. After all, this whole life was because of a horrible tragedy that no one had ever seen coming.

It was suffocating in the room and the air was thick with dread and hostility. Dean knew that Sammy would be safe there. It was warded up the ass, the kid could handle weapons just fine and there was enough salt poured on every opening to give the entirety of Middle America hypertension just by driving by. The bar was only a few hundred yards away if his little brother needed him.

Dean ignored the puppy dog eyes being shot at him and pushed out the door into air he could actually breathe in.

By the time he made it back a few hours later, a couple hundred dollars richer, not quite as buzzed as he had been the night before, and feeling guilty for ditching his kid brother, Sammy was gone.

Dean still doesn't have the words to describe the heart stopping and breath stealing total and utter helplessness he felt that night. His entire body started to shake as he gripped his head and swayed on his feet, all the while trying to simultaneously formulate a plan to find his little brother.

Sammy's duffel bag was still in the motel room closet where it had been since the day they arrived, but his backpack and some clothes were missing. The best that Dean could hope for was that the kid had taken off in a snit for a little while and would find his way back after a few hours of pouting somewhere.

Before Dean even took in his first real gulp of air, his fingers were already feverishly dialing his father's phone again, but there was still no answer.

For three solid days the frantic big brother scoured the streets of El Paso, running flat out from place to place. From stalking the damn soccer camp to staking out the library and museums. Trying to catch a glimpse of a mop headed thirteen year old that was a little too small for his age and hefting a backpack that, if Dean knew his little brother, probably weighed more than the kid himself.

He must have asked a thousand people if they had seen Sammy, desperately thrusting at them with the photo of the two brothers Dean kept in his wallet.

No one had seen him at the bus station, or at Union Depot. Running on nothing but coffee, adrenaline, and naked fear, Dean had pleaded frantically at the truck stop near the motel for any possible sighting of the boy.

Nothing.

No sightings.

No help of any kind.

Sammy was just _gone_. In the blink of an eye, while Dean was out self medicating the hysteria that his father was missing, his little brother had taken off too. Every half hour he left increasingly nervous messages on his father's voice mail until the mail box was completely full and all he had left was dead air.

It was almost three in the morning on the third night when his phone finally rang.

Dean had forced himself back to the motel several times during the day and night between searches just in case Sammy showed back up. It wasn't the first time that he regretted his father's unwillingness to spring for another cellphone for his little brother. At least then, Dean might have heard something.

 _Anything._

Even if it was just Sammy telling him to fuck off, he would have taken it at the moment, but the kid had no way to contact them if he was in real danger.

Dean's hands were shaking like an addict in withdrawal when he grappled for the phone sitting across from him on the table in the motel room, and when he saw the Caller ID he felt practically faint with relief.

"Dad?"

" _What...Happened_?"

There had been a cold rage to John's voice on the other line. In the background Dean could heard the growl of the Impala being pushed to unsafe speeds, and although he was weak from no food and no sleep there was an indescribable solace washing over him.

 _Dad was okay_

 _Dad was okay_

 _Dad was okay_

Dad would find Sammy, because their father could find a needle in a stack of needles. He was the ultimate hunter and tracker, and Dean didn't doubt for a moment that wherever his kid brother was, Dad would know how to get him back.

His voice suddenly parched, he had relayed the events of the past few days to his father, with John making no comment until he was finished. It wasn't that Dean was expecting his father to comfort him after he had fucked up so royally, and it didn't matter because the man's only other words were enough to ease his firstborn's mind a tiny bit.

" _I'll be there in forty."_

Then the line cut out and Dean gulped in huge draws of air when he realized that he was on the verge of passing out from holding his breath. Those forty minutes had been the longest of his young life and it had seemed like days before he heard the black beauty pull into the parking lot. He had thrown the room door open and watched his dad, cut and bloodied, with days of beard growth matted down from the heat, stride towards him.

Dean's knees went weak.

A combination of exhaustion and relief, and when his father grabbed him by the shirt, the boy thought at first that it was because John was trying to prevent him from falling to the floor, but then he was rocked back into consciousness by the violent thrusts of his father's powerful arms.

" _You...Had...ONE...Job_!"

Every word was punctuated by another harsh shake, powerful enough to force Dean's teeth to painfully gnash together in his mouth and make his head loll from side to side like a rag doll.

" _I...TRUSTED...You!_ "

 _Shake_

" _I...RELIED...On...You_!"

 _Shake_

" _Your brother is GONE!"_

 _Shake_

" _He could be DEAD!"_

 _Shake_

" _And it'll be YOUR FAULT...because you couldn't stay home...and do...your...FUCKING JOB!"_

 _Shake_

 _Shake_

 _Shake_

Hot tears burned down Dean's cheeks and he felt nothing but shame for acting so weak in his father's presence.

The shaking was rattling his brain and making him see spots, and he could feel himself losing his battle with unconsciousness. The blood was rushing to his ears, adding to his distortion, and before he knew it he was bringing up fiery hot bile from his stomach and spewing it all over himself and the grungy motel carpet.

His father let go of him then and Dean sank boneless to the floor, coughing and gagging and struggling to keep awake. Putrid streams of stomach acid streaked down his shirt and matted into the carpet under his knees.

He couldn't bring himself to face Dad. The crushing burden of being the cause of his father losing his youngest son overwhelming him to the point that his entire state of being was just a complete blur.

Somehow he managed to make it to his bed, and he sat there in a daze while his father made a flurry of phone calls. Dean listened through cotton clogged ears, his eyes shifting in and out of focus, as Dad's voice began to swirl faster and faster, like a record being played at the wrong speed and it would have been funny if it wasn't so terrifying.

Over the next few days, Dean wasn't permitted in the car with his father to search for Sammy. John was determined that his firstborn stay behind in the motel in the unlikely event that his little boy find his way back there.

Logically, Dean knew it made sense, but it didn't lessen the humiliation of being sidelined in the search, or the crippling fear that his father simply didn't want him anywhere near. For a boy who lived for his family, the total rejection by both of them in the harshest manner possible brought Dean to his knees.

Caleb joined the search the next day, tearing up the roads between Lincoln and El Paso. He and John created a search grid and they split the difference. Another hunter that was significantly more tech savvy was tasked with checking the traffic cams trying to spot the boy. Meanwhile Dean was forced to sit behind and alone in the motel with his thumbs up his ass.

Feeling more and more worthless, untrustworthy and impotent from his father's rage as the Sammy-free minutes pass.

He stares at the peeling paint of the walls of the motel room until his eyes tear up from lack of blinking. He paces, on increasingly unsteady legs, deep trails in the stained industrial grade carpet that's faded in a million places and dark with unidentifiable bodily fluids in others. He runs his hands through his buzz cut until he's pulling swatches of short hairs through the gaps in his fingers.

His eyes are bloodshot, deep dark hollows surrounding faded green irises that have lost their life and luster since his little brother vanished like a wisp of rebellious angsty smoke. His skin is pasty white with a waxy sheen and his freckles stand out like vivid accusing marks of failure and uselessness.

He doesn't know who he is if he's not his brother's protector.

His father's gun hand.

These past few weeks have made a perfectly crystalline clear case that he is neither. Dad hunted alone without backup because Dean had _One Job_ , and John had returned several scars richer and a pint or two of blood poorer because of it.

Not only that, but, Sammy was God knows _where_ , doing God knows _what_ , or _worse_ , having God knows _what_ being done to _him_ by _God knows Who_. Or _What_.

If he was even still alive that is.

Some protector you are, Dean.

You _pathetic, useless, worthless, failure_ of a _poor excuse_ for a brother and son that you are.

 _All you do is let your family down._

As the week passed before his father finally called in with the news that Bobby was pretty sure that Sam had taken refuge in one of the hunting cabins, Dean was rapidly losing weight as well as his mind. He couldn't make himself eat, and was only sleeping when his body and mind united in rebellion against his will and forced him down for a few minutes here and there.

By the time John finally agreed to swing by and pick him up, Dean was barely coherent and slipping fast. And he's cold. So fucking _cold,_ and his hands shake and his skin is mottled with goosebumps and no amount of hot water in the shower can stop his teeth from chattering.

His thoughts skip back and forth wondering if Sammy is just as cold as he lies dead somewhere. Small, helpless and _alone_ because his big brother failed at watching out for him like he's always promised the kid he would.

Looking back, Dean is pretty sure that he experienced a fairly profound psychotic break during that time. The memories of what happened right after they found Sammy in that cabin are still filmy and he can't think of them without experiencing a delusionary white hum ringing in his ears.

His first clear memory is on the drive to Montana, when his mind finally allowed him to accept the idea that the Dad and Sammy riding in the car with him were actually the real members of his family and not some starvation and sleep deprivation induced hallucinations.

He has vague flashes of consciousness from the days beforehand, but they are disjointed and muddled and most of them don't make any sense _at all_ , because he's pretty sure that there was some kind of dog in the middle of it, and his family doesn't do the pet thing.

He's also pretty sure that he remembers hearing the telltale _swish_ and _crack_ of Dad's belt getting a workout, and Dean is certainly the one culpable in this whole mess and more than deserving.

There's a fleeting moment of wanting to tell Dad that it wasn't any use bothering.

Dean is too far removed from any physical sensation at the time, his mind and body numb beyond comprehension, and all John would be accomplishing is tiring himself out more than he already was with the effort, and Dean's just not worth it. But later, there are no marks on his ass heralding the aftermath of an encounter with it, so maybe he just imagined his cheek resting on the cool flat surface of a natural wood picnic table, lying in wait for punishment.

It's all just so confusing.

There was a wendigo, and then there wasn't a wendigo, and then some rundown cabin in the middle of nowhere. With rusty springed beds and a tattered couch and antlers on the walls. The floor is littered with detritus, and the whole place feels like it was abandoned mid-use years ago judging by the crud encrusted dishes in the dingy sink, the clothing scattered about, and the half-missing ancient wind chimes on the porch.

It's at the cabin that he finally sleeps.

Covered in a scratchy blanket with a flat pillow behind his head, trying not to gag on the smell of must and long term vacancy in the pillowcase. His head slows down so that the spins in his mind finally stop turning at warp speed and it's a halting and stuttering progression of awareness as his eyes flutter shut.

He thinks for a moment that the gravelly rumble he hears in his head is his father's deep baritone softly humming, but it could have just been the thunder caused by the storm coming in dark and threatening from the distance. But there is also a steady weight on his back, and it feels like it could be something shaped like Dad's hand, gently patting and rubbing, and whatever it is, he drifts until his mind is black and he doesn't need to think anymore.

The next morning he awakens to the smell of dark roast coffee brewing, and the aroma makes his empty stomach twist and he breathes deeply and slowly through his nose to keep from dry heaving on the stale linen of his ramshackle bed. Dad is at the stove, his muscled back stretching the fabric of a plain white T-shirt that is smudged with grass stains.

His father doesn't say anything when he turns around to frown at his firstborn, but he jerks his chin towards the rough hewn wood table, streaked with cigarette ash and dotted with random scraps of notes, and Dean knows better than to defy him by staying in bed. He hobbles over to the table like a senior citizen and drops himself into one of the uneven chairs, and there's suddenly a bowl of oatmeal pushed in front of him.

Dean doesn't remember the last time he consciously ate something, unable to shake the lingering determination that _failures_ don't need to have food wasted on them. He balks and gags at the weak smell of the hot cereal, and it's not until his father orders him to eat it that he forces himself to lift a spoonful to his mouth.

Sammy is still sleeping on a small camp bed. Tufts of brown curls sticking up wildly in every direction. His little brother's face is rosy with good color, and his breathing is steady, light and carelessly easy. The sight of him safe and healthy and _here_ is better for Dean's digestion than the tepid bowl of mush that he is picking his way through under Dad's watchful eye.

During the next two days, Dean's world slowly regains color.

Whereas the previous weeks had been a blurry haze of black, white and gray, their lives in that bedraggled cabin in Montana begin to bloom in a rainbow of shades in his mind. Air that was stagnant and thick, barely able to fill his lungs with oxygen, was suddenly clear and refreshing again.

After the oatmeal, he had been pushed back to sleep, Dad's firm hand on his neck propelling him into the bed, and when he woke, the cabinets were bursting with supplies that let him know the family was here for a while. Sammy and their father are having a surreal discussion on the Apollo moon landing and Dean's brain isn't quite able to wrap itself around something that abstract just yet.

Instead, he helps himself to the bag of peanut M&Ms on the table that are most assuredly for him, since neither of the other Winchesters care for them. His stomach growls loud and angry and he shuffles out to the quiet emptiness of the front porch where he lays down on his back and just lets himself _breathe_ as candy coated chocolate peanuts melt over his reawakening taste buds.

That afternoon Dad is clearly _done_ with the world, and he mentally checks out, dragging a bottle of Jack to a chair in the back of the cabin, and the boys know that unless disaster strikes, he is to be left alone for a while.

Sam isn't talking, but that probing, earnest stare that defines his eyes is burning into Dean's brain, but he can't talk to his brother just yet. The words won't come and Dean isn't finished processing the maelstrom of his wildly fluctuating thoughts. He's unable to formulate a sentence that could possibly do justice to the nightmare existence that almost dragged him completely under.

A prayer, a plea, a curse or an accusation. Rage, hysteria, devastation or jubilation.

He settles for slapping together a PB&J and pouring a glass of milk, standing sentry while his little brother consumes both before he flees outside again, because the porch is the only place where he can truly fill his lungs.

Then Sammy is bitching to the room at large about fireworks and the fourth of July, and Dean blinks hard and fast because he hadn't realized that the month had changed while he was drowning. Dad is in a bourbon soaked coma and unavailable for consultation, so Dean doesn't feel bad when he snags the Impala's keys and takes off.

With John home, if Sammy disappears again, it's on _him_ and not Dean this time, and the oldest son shoves back a malicious resentment that Dad should be sober and watching out for his wayward kid.

He travels enough to have a fair instinct about where to find the nearest town, and he's not disappointed when it appears twenty minutes later, after driving a long ribbon of winding road through the forest. There is an explosion of red, white and blue bunting draped over every porch and street light, and signs for barbecues and picnics and concerts.

It doesn't take long to locate a large white tent propped up at the edge of town plastered with signs hawking a plethora of fireworks. The money Dean earned hustling while he was abandoning his baby brother is still bulging like paper accusations in his pocket and he drops it all, every dime and then some besides, and buys a huge crate of explosives.

He heads back to the cabin, long enough to heat up a can of stew for Sammy's dinner, choking back a handful of chips himself, and leaving a sandwich and a bottle of water next to Dad's chair. Although the likelihood of their father regaining consciousness during the evening is next to zero, Dean leaves a note letting him know that the boys will return in a few hours just the same.

John doesn't need another moment of worry regarding their whereabouts any time soon.

Then he bundles Sam into the car and they shoot off down the road towards a large, grassy field, and when it's dark enough Sammy pulls the crate out of the trunk and grabs a Roman Candle for each of them. Together they shoot them off and all Dean can see is his little brother's smile.

 _Dad would never let us do anything like this. Thanks, Dean. This is great._

Then Sam wraps his thin arms around Dean and hugs him close, like he did when he was so much smaller and affectionate, and finally – _finally_ – Dean fully exhales, and the cobwebs of his mind clear away. He holds his brother, his warm, breathing, safe and cuddly little brother, and feels his world righting itself on its axis again. His nightmare vanishes and he's truly happy for the first time in a long time.

That night at the cabin, Sammy abandons his small camp bed and crawls into Dean's larger one and burrows against his big brother's side.

Dean has scolded him before, and told him that he has become too old to snuggle, so Sam contents himself with curling up so that his forehead is pressed against his brother's shoulder, and Dean allows it because he needs the contact just as much.

And that is how their father finds them the next morning, and nothing about the previous weeks is ever mentioned again.

/

There is a delicious smell of lemon and rosemary in the kitchen as the three Winchesters sit down to dinner, but neither of John's sons are really eating.

The roast chicken is cut up and passed around, scoops of mashed potatoes and corn are plopped on plates. John and his firstborn pop the tops of two bottles of beer and Sammy doesn't even bother trying to plead for one like he normally does. There's no bitch faced little brother petulantly reminding his father that Dean was allowed at his age. The only sounds are the occasional _clinks_ of silverware against plates as bits of food are pushed around.

A glare in Dean's direction gets his oldest son to start shoveling forkfuls in his mouth, almost mechanically, but at least he's eating. John taps his fork on Sammy's plate meaningfully, and although the boy doesn't take a bite, it does serve as the first time his father really looks at his youngest son's face in detail.

Sam looks _exhausted_.

He has raccoon eyes and his already thin face looks even thinner. It's not the growing process stretching out his features, it's lack of sufficient nutrition. John frowns, annoyed that maybe the kid is working too hard at his studies and not sleeping or eating enough. He is genuinely frustrated because the whole point of this year off was to make sure that Sammy got normal _fun_ out of his system before he settled down to full time hunting.

John _is_ hungry, and the chicken Dean made smells and tastes wonderful, but there is clearly something going on with his kids. Besides the fact that, on a regular day, you could lose some fingers getting between them and food, their eyes are straying everywhere in the room _except_ at each other.

Dean returns his attention to his own plate, and he is determinedly plowing through his meal now, most likely in an attempt to be able to get up and move around the kitchen without having to sit in the stifling atmosphere of the table. His father knows him well enough to figure that one out for himself.

Sam is still listlessly picking at his dinner, without actually putting any of it in his mouth, and John taps his plate again, a little more firmly this time, until his youngest looks up at him through the ridiculously long fringe curtaining his eyes. John tamps back an urge to grab his hair clippers and go to town, because when he specified hair length for the boy, he didn't think to bother with a different set of rules for the _front_.

Damn _too-smart-for-his-own-good_ kid and his ability to take advantage of loopholes.

"Your brother made a good meal, Sammy," he rebukes sharply, raising a perturbed eyebrow. "You know better than to waste food."

Sam blinks, throws a quick glance at his brother that Dean ignores, and then stares back down at his plate before shoving a bite in his mouth.

"Yes, sir."

John hasn't seen Dean in over a week, and Sammy for longer. All he really wanted tonight was to spend some time with his boys, but the tension in the air is so thick you couldn't cut it with a razor sharp knife if you tried. Dean is chewing and shoveling with military precision and Sammy is forcing himself to ingest tiny bites as if each movement is physically painful.

Neither one of them is speaking to their father either, and finally John throws his napkin on his plate and pushes it away.

"Okay. What's going on with you two?"

Sam glances up once quickly, a flash of guilt in his black ringed eyes, before he hides back behind his mop of hair. Dean wipes his mouth and racks his shoulders back, a fake casual look schooling his features as he shakes his head at his father and lies right to his face.

"Nothing. Everything's fine, Dad."

Sam's eyes dart around the table nervously, but then he purses his lips together and bites down on his bottom row of teeth and jerkily nods his head in agreement.

"Yeah. Fine."

Dean resumes his quest to snorkel the rest of the way through his meal as Sam gulps noisily from his glass of mineral water, and John looks from one of them to the other as his temper rises because if there is one thing he won't stand for, it's being lied to by his kids.

"Okay," he starts in a reasonable tone. "Let's try this again. _Without_ the bullshit. What's going on?"

Sam looks on the verge of saying something, but then there is a sudden surge of hostility in Dean's snapping green eyes and the younger boy pales and grabs his water glass again. Dean takes in a deep breath, but he's a perfectly cool customer as he dangles a piece of chicken on his fork and shrugs nonchalantly.

"Sammy broke curfew last week."

Across the table, Sam chokes on his water, sputtering and gagging as a coughing fit takes over. He slams the glass down and coughs into his napkin as his eyes water, shaking off his father's concerned face as his brother rolls his eyes in agitation and takes another bite of food.

John waits half a heartbeat.

Looks at Dean who looks directly back at him, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and then over to Sam who is clearing his throat and decidedly not looking at either of them. Dean, under the mistaken impression that the subject is closed, scoops up a forkful of corn and devours it and Sam balls up his napkin and covers the mangled dinner that is now splattered with saliva and sparkling water.

His kids might think he was born yesterday, but John knows that Sammy staying out a little late wouldn't trigger whatever the hell this thing between them is, but he's going to give Dean the benefit of the doubt if his eldest seems content that the situation is handled.

"And that's it?"

"Yes, sir," Dean replies, taking a swig of his beer.

Dean gets up from the table and clears his plate and Sam's, scraping the leftover food into the trash and keeping his back to his father's inquiring eyes. John turns his attention to his youngest who is clearly trying to look smaller than his increasing size allows him to.

"Why were you late, Sammy?"

He waits for a half second while Sam clears his throat and blinks, and when his son answers, it's to the table in front of him and not his father's eyes. Dean has turned surreptitiously to the side, as if he's also interested in the answer.

"I was working on something for school."

Dean's response is just a few seconds too late to be a natural reaction to information he should already have.

"Yeah," Dean says, grabbing the tube of plastic wrap for the leftovers. "But I found him and made sure he came right home."

John nods, as if he's going along with the story.

"Is that why his car isn't in the driveway?"

That simple statement has the profound effect of a bucket of cold water dropped on his kids, and they both immediately freeze in place for a hot second until Dean recovers and continues to fuss with the table as if he didn't miss a beat.

"Yes, sir," Dean answers steadily, stopping his puttering long enough to assume military posture. "I put him on lock down for two weeks."

Sam's face blushes and he averts his eyes when his father sweeps his gaze over to him. John taps a finger on the table as he takes in deep breaths, wondering just how far he should go into _Mad Dad_ mode.

"He fight you on it?" The question is to Dean, even though John is looking at Sam.

"No, sir. Not a peep out of him."

John sweeps his eyes back up to his firstborn, but it is Dean the _Soldier_ standing in front of him now, not Dean the _Son_ , and John knows that information will be forthcoming, but unhelpfully basic.

"Is he following the terms?"

"Yes, sir," Dean replies, eyes forward. "Model citizen."

Sam is sitting slumped in his chair, head down and looking ten years younger than he is. John sighs and rubs his eyes, already weary from this unproductive back and forth. He shoots a pointed look at his firstborn and there is no room in his expression for any more crap.

"Then why are you treating him like he took a tire iron to the Impala?"

The question surprises Dean, who blinks rapidly, and John can see the gears working in the boy's mind as his eldest formulates an acceptable response. But Sam, finally roused from his self imposed distance, is quicker.

"I lied to him," Sam says quietly as he raises his eyes to look at his father. "He called to check in on me earlier in the evening, and I lied about where I was."

" _Sam_..."

Dean's eyes are snapping and his jaw is clamped tight, wordlessly warning his little brother to watch where he is going.

"He didn't clear the location with me first, Dad," Dean responds, turning his attention back to his father. "He shouldn't have been where he was. But when he was late getting home and I called to see what was going on, he was straight with me. I went out, found him and then brought him home myself."

That, at least, was the truth, John could tell from the reaction of both of his sons.

"I also took money from our emergency stash without asking," Sam continued, his voice growing stronger.

" _What?_ " Dean's voice was shocked and his eyes were wide.

Clearly _this_ was something new, John thought.

"I didn't know if I had enough cash on me for the project I was doing," Sam muttered, his eyes back down to the table. "I put it all back when we got home, because I never actually needed it."

John glared angrily at his youngest, because taking money from the family pot wasn't allowed without discussion and Sam knew it. Dean had his arms crossed and was frowning in disbelief.

"You _know_ better than that, Samuel," his father barked. "Family is all we have. You don't _steal_ from your family."

Sam's face was pure misery as he sat slumped in his chair and rubbed his hands on his jeans.

"Yes, sir." He looked up and stared at his brother pleadingly. "I'm _sorry_ , Dean. I really am."

John watched as Dean took in deep dragging breaths, clearly trying to calm himself. As much as the father in him wanted to storm in and take control of this particular situation, whatever the problem was, it was between the boys. John could only address the issues they were sharing with him, which at the moment wasn't a lot.

Since he was the one that put his firstborn into a position of authority over his younger brother, John had to trust Dean's ability to handle things fairly and reinforce Sam's acknowledgment of it.

"I assume you didn't know about the money when you put him on lock down?"

Dean throws a poisonous glare in his brother's direction and then smooths his face back out again to face his father.

"No, sir. I didn't," he admits, his voice hard. "But it's for him too, if he needs it. He knows that."

John nods, because he expects this answer. Doesn't excuse what his youngest did, though. He gets an idea to help judge just how broken things are between them.

"Lines or laps, Dean?"

Dean's head jerks up, and confusion and horror muddles his expression.

"Sir?"

"For _Sam_ ," John clarifies. "Lines or laps for taking without asking?"

Realization dawns on his son's face and Dean's lips purse into a frown. Both of his kids have run an endless amount of disciplinary laps in their lives, and they can do it without blinking.

John is willing to bet that if Dean is only mildly annoyed he will choose laps, because writing lines is what the boys would have to do when they cut loose at Jim's place, and Sam _hates_ having to write them. Both boys always have, which is what made it so effective and why they rarely caused trouble in Blue Earth.

So when Dean says _Lines_ , his father is stunned and, from the look on Sam's face, so is Dean's little brother.

"You heard your brother, Samuel," John says, turning to his youngest. " _I will respect and_ _obey my brother and_ _the rules_. Two full pages, both sides. Right now."

" _Dad_ ," Dean protests, obviously not okay with the wording of the mandate. John holds up a hand to silence his eldest and jerks his head towards Sam to hurry him along.

" _Now_ , Samuel."

Sam gets up slowly from his chair and brushes his hair away from his face.

"Yes, sir."

He sends another apologetic look in his brother's direction and lopes out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room.

In the kitchen, Dean's face has gone from placid to irritated and he's not being particularly shy at the moment about letting his father know it.

"I wish you didn't do that, Dad."

John reaches into the fridge and grabs two more beers. He brings them back to the table and indicates that Dean should retake his seat.

"You chose lines, kiddo."

His son sits reluctantly, but he grabs his beer and takes a sip.

"'Cause he didn't need more exercise," Dean says quietly, not looking at his father. "He hasn't been eating or sleeping enough as it is."

 _Ah_.

That explains it. John should have known that Dean wouldn't intentionally do something that mean to his little brother. Things might not be as bad as John suspects after all.

He reaches out and puts a comforting hand on Dean's arm to stop his son from nervously picking the paper label off of his beer bottle.

"Why don't you tell me why you're really pissed at him."

Dean doesn't move his arm to force his father's hand away, but he doesn't look John in the eye either as he spins the bottle between his hands. John doesn't rush his kid to speak, because sometimes Dean needs a moment to mull over the right words.

His boys are very different in that way. Sam is so hot tempered that he just spits out whatever comes to his head first, usually with little thought and regard to what he is saying and who he is saying it to. John has always been able to understand that, because it's a trait that he has passed to his youngest son himself.

But Dean is more careful with sharing his feelings. Of course he also has a streak of the Winchester temper, but generally speaking, when it's really important, John's eldest doesn't say anything without truly meaning it.

"I thought I could trust him," Dean whispers after a moment, and there is a heavy weight of sadness in his voice.

John doesn't answer right away, especially since he is well acquainted with the feeling. There are very few people in his life that he does trust, and it's because of the large number of times he has been let down.

Of course John has also let people down himself, not the least of which are his kids, but then again, his boys are not perfect either, and maybe it's time to remind his firstborn of that fact.

"He made a mistake, kiddo," John says gently, reaching up to pull Dean's chin over so that they are looking at each other. "He's owned up to it and is paying for it. You can't keep beating him up over it."

Dean is blinking hard and shifts his head away so that he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of his father's reprimand.

"Sammy's only seventeen, Dean," John reminds him, pointedly. "Sometimes seventeen year olds make terrible mistakes. But you also need to forgive them, because at the end of the day they're still just kids."

The look on Dean's face when his head shoots back up is flushed with realization, and John is glad that he doesn't have to emphasize his point any clearer.

"And then you need to forgive yourself," he continues, getting up and running an affectionate hand over his son's head. "Because none of us is perfect, and everyone deserves a second chance."

John doesn't say anything else.

He goes over to the corner of the room and grabs his bag, extracting his journal and the latest _Guns and Ammo_ which he slides in front of his son. Dean can feign interest in the magazine while he's actually digesting his father's comments without it being uncomfortable between them.

Before John buries himself in his writing, he washes the dinner dishes and cuts a slice of the blueberry pie he picked up on his way to see his kids. Grabbing a fork, he slides it in front of his eldest and leaves the boy to his thoughts.

Forty-five minutes later Sam is back, hovering awkwardly in the threshold like a skittish colt as he darts glances between his father and brother sitting at the kitchen table. John motions him over and then indicates that he should hand the sheets of paper he is holding so gingerly to his brother. Sam places them next to Dean's magazine and none of them comment on the fact that the younger boy's eyes are red rimmed.

Dean just turns away and squeezes his own eyes shut because _damn it_ , he is so fucking tired of seeing his baby brother emotionally wrecked. He's also not feeling so charitable towards himself right now after his father's very timely reminder of Dean's own trust issues.

"This doesn't happen again, Samuel," John says sternly. "Or the next time you answer to me. Understood?"

Sam swallows hard and nods as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. You're in your room for the rest of the night. I'll see you before I leave in the morning."

"Yes, sir." Sam grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and heads back upstairs, leaving his father and brother behind.

Dean waits a couple of hours until his father goes out to run an errand before he grabs his third beer. John has told him that he will be gone for a while, and his eldest son doesn't expect to see him back before he heads up to bed himself. It's not an unusual occurrence.

The papers that his brother has left near his chair glare at him accusingly. They are covered in row after row of the nice version of Sam's chicken scratch. The kind that his brother only bothers using when he's working on something important, like term papers for school. Otherwise Sam's handwriting is atrocious.

Dean is painfully aware of the fact that it's time to let go of the anger and resentment he has been carrying against his little brother. Although his reasons for being such a hardass haven't changed, he at least is man enough to acknowledge that he has been relatively just as cruel to Sam as their father was to Dean four years ago.

Or _worse_.

Dad might have handled Dean a little roughly, but at least he hadn't clocked him one like Dean did to Sam.

And Sam's crimes were so much smaller than Dean's had been, because you couldn't really equate an impromptu road trip of a boy as old as Dean was when he was out hustling in bars, with the irresponsible act of a careless son who let his thirteen year old little brother slip through his fingers when he wasn't looking.

Dean still doesn't know how his father ever forgave him for that, but he does know it's time to stop raking Sammy over the coals before it kills them both. When the morning comes, it's time to call a truce.

He's beyond tired. Too tired to even kick back with some crap cable for a while. So he tidies up the kitchen and living room, leaving on the porch light for his dad, and then trudges up the stairs to his room. Sam's light is off, unsurprisingly, and Dean has a passing flash of guilt for the petulant exile he has subjected his little brother to.

He'll make it up to the kid, somehow.

Snapping on the light in his room, he pulls off his outer flannel and heads over to his dresser to grab sleeping clothes when something on his bed catches his eye. Perched on the pillow of the side he prefers to sleep on are two large yellow sheets of paper. Ripped from a legal tablet, and longer than the white sheets of notepaper that Dean has angrily shoved into a drawer downstairs until his father consents to them being thrown out.

He picks them up, and when he reads the first line, his hand begins to tremble and he feels sick to his stomach.

 _Please forgive me. I miss my big brother._

Written over and over and over again. Two full sheets. Both sides. In the same painstakingly careful script.

His legs give out and he slumps down to sit on the bed, shaking his head and rubbing his face.

"Ah damnit, Sammy. _No_."

He couldn't feel more like an asshole right now if he tried.

Because there isn't anything he can't forgive when it comes to his little brother. There is nothing Sammy could ever do that would be so terrible that Dean wouldn't shove it aside in a heartbeat and let it go.

Maybe that's a bad way to be. Maybe it's not good for either of them, but he doesn't give a damn.

There is simply no act awful enough that would ever stop Dean from being who he is.

And who he is?

He's Sam's big brother and protector. Even if he occasionally has to make hard choices to save the kid from himself, there will always be forgiveness on his part.

No matter how much it hurts sometimes.

Screw waiting until morning. This shit is ending _right the fuck now._

He strides with purpose down the hallway and knocks gently on Sam's door, not really waiting for an invitation. Sam won't be asleep anyway. Dean's not stupid. He knows the kid has been caffeinating himself into functionality for days.

Sam rolls over when he hears his brother enter his room and blinks in surprise. Dean doesn't say anything as he approaches the bed, but the unspoken shorthand between brothers makes words unnecessary.

A slight twitch of Dean's head has Sam scooting over to make room on the bed and his brother toes off his boots and lays down next to him on top of the blanket. There is a peaceful silence between them that holds none of the tension of the silence of the previous week. This time there's a comforting easiness to it, and neither of them feel the need to do or say anything for a moment.

But then Dean breaks the ice, because it's been just _so damn long_ since he actually talked with his little brother, and he has missed him more than either of them ever thought possible.

"I was thinking about doing tacos on Thursday night for your study group. What do you think, Sammy?"

A watery chuckle bursts out of Sam's throat and Dean can hear the dimpled smile in the darkness.

"Yeah," Sam whispers softly. "That's a great idea."

Dean nods to himself and smiles, and he can breathe again.

"Okay," he agrees. "Tacos it is."

Another moment passes and Dean shifts down further on the bed and crosses his legs, clearly settling in. Sam hesitates for just a few seconds, but then he curls to his side and leans his head until it's tucked against his brother's shoulder like he did when he was younger.

"Close your eyes, Sammy. You need sleep, kiddo," Dean soothes. "I'll be here in the morning."

Then he begins to quietly hum _Simple Man_ and Sam laughs silently in the dark, because Dean actually has a good singing voice when he hums. It's his smart assed nature that has him belting out tunes off key on purpose when he sings out loud.

Within just a few minutes, Sam starts to drift and his breathing evens out as he sleeps deeply for the first time in almost two weeks.

A few minutes after that, Dean does the same.

/

John Winchester lives in a world where he doesn't run away from the scary things that go bump in the night. He runs _towards_ them. Because _they_ are scared of _him_.

That's not to say that he doesn't know fear.

He knows plenty of it.

John and fear _have met._

But only when it comes to his kids. There is nothing in this life, or the next, that John Winchester genuinely fears except for the things that could hurt his sons.

So when his little boy runs off to Flagstaff it is, without a doubt, one of the most paralyzing moments of John's life.

It retrospect, the whole thing was probably his fault anyway. It's taken a few years to own that little fact, but John eventually comes to that conclusion.

He thinks that maybe thirteen was not yet old enough for Sammy to accept, without question, that it was too risky to be vulnerable at a sleep away sports camp without Dean and his Colt handy to keep the literal monsters away. So maybe John should have taken a few extra moments to get that point across in a conversation that didn't max out decibel levels.

And thirteen year old hormones, combined with Winchester temperament and stubbornness, was easily a catalyst for saying painfully shitty things to your old man because John remembers, with perfect clarity, doing the exact same thing.

It also wasn't a good idea to let his wounded feelings keep him from spanking the disrespect right out of his bratty kid the minute Sammy slammed that bathroom door, and leaving poor Dean to bat cleanup for over almost two weeks until his little brother finally pulled a Houdini.

But John had fled like a coward out to the desert, where he could hunt and shoot and _hurt_ things that preyed on people instead of dealing with his children. Leaving the responsibility of wrangling the volatile powder keg of puberty that was John's baby to his seventeen year old brother.

Oh, God. _Dean_.

The hunt for the chupacabra den took so much longer, and was so much harder and bloodier than he had anticipated. When it was finally over, he was busted up and straggling along in the desert, limping his way for miles back to the Impala and civilization. Not even sure what the day was, and unable to call his kids because there was no cell signal smack in the middle of Mexican _Hell_.

By the time he got his phone to work and started listening to all of those nightmarish messages, John had mentally gone to another place and was functioning and surviving on pure animal instinct alone.

He had never meant to be so rough with his firstborn that night.

John's never been shy about handing out some discipline to his sons, but that was the first and only time he had ever laid angry hands on one of them. It's no excuse to say that he didn't actually hit Dean that night, because he shook the boy so roughly and severely in his frantic grief that the poor kid actually puked from his actions.

John remembers the revulsion he felt of himself as his Dean crumpled to the floor, broken and pale and shivering. He touched him again, only once, to grab him up and carry him over to the bed so his child wasn't kneeling in a puddle of his own vomit. After that, John kept his distance, sure that his son wanted his father's hands nowhere near him after being treated so roughly.

For the next few days, he kept Dean safe at the motel, not wanting his other boy to be anywhere near in case they found Sammy dead and torn apart. A kind of condition that John's firstborn would never recover from seeing. To be honest, it was also because John's hysteria was running high, and he couldn't take the risk of lashing out against his oldest again.

John's little boy was simply gone.

He wasn't sure if he should have been proud or terrified of the fact that he had trained his kid so well to cover his tracks that his own father couldn't find him.

Fortunately, Sammy was found safe and sound, because John was already gathering the items necessary to make a deal if his baby was dead. The agony of that was something that he knew he would never be able to live with. Hell itself had no torture equal to living in a world where one of his sons was gone.

His adrenaline had finally started recede in that motel room in Albuquerque, where Sammy was safe and sleeping soundly under his arm. It took a long time, _too long_ , for John to remember that he had _two_ sons that needed to be looked after that night.

He doesn't know how much time had passed before he realized that Dean had never come back inside. At first, he hadn't thought anything of it, because both of the boys tried to make themselves scarce when the other was getting punished. He couldn't blame them. John wouldn't have wanted to be there either if he had a choice in the matter.

Sammy was snuggled up in bed and out for the count when John had ventured outside to check on his oldest son's whereabouts. It never occurred to him that Dean might have taken off, because that wasn't something that the boy would ever do. He would never even think of scaring the shit out of his father like that, especially right then after everything they had just been through.

Sure enough, his son was sitting hunched over on the bench of a picnic table on the tiny spot of grass next to their end unit. It was the first time that John had really looked at Dean in days, and his stomach twisted painfully to realize that his kid looked worse than some POWs that John had seen in his war days.

He strode over, desperation making his movements look more threatening than he would have wanted them to, and Dean had shrunk back from him in fear, his dull green eyes suddenly wild and blinking rapidly. Before John knew what was happening, Dean was laying himself over the table. Arms pretzeled around his head and face pressed so hard into the wood that John was afraid he would get splinters in his cheek.

And it only got worse when the worried father realized that his frantic and hysterical little boy was muttering gut wrenching, quiet, broken apologies and waiting to get belted by him.

He had gathered Dean in his arms and walked him back into the motel room where Sammy slept on unawares. Dean was shivering, and John wrapped a blanket around him and led him to the table where he manually fed his son sips of water and small pieces of a protein bar. Dean mechanically chewed and swallowed, but only because he was programmed to respond to his father's orders.

There was clear trauma in Dean's eyes, and an obvious detachment from reality as he stared blindly behind his father's shoulder and trembled.

Truthfully, John had started to fear that his son might need real medical intervention if he couldn't get the kid to calm down. The shivering wasn't getting any better, no matter how long he rubbed Dean's arms and legs to get circulation going again.

In the end, John had bundled himself and both of his sons into the same cramped bed, not wanting to be separated from either of them at the moment, and they slept huddled together that night with him in the middle and a child under each arm.

As they headed north, John caught wind of a possible wendigo hunt, and he was so desperate to get Dean to rejoin the conscious world, he agreed to look into it, because his firstborn loved a good hunt. Even though all John wanted to do was sleep for a week.

He had been hopeful that planning for one would snap Dean out of his funk, but the whole thing was a complete bust, and it wasn't until they got to Rufus' cabin that his oldest began to show signs of coming back to them.

Once Dean started to interact willingly again, feeding himself and showering and moving around, John had finally let himself go.

But he hadn't been so far gone that he wasn't aware of the silent tension between his kids during those few days in Montana. Days that reminded him _way_ too much of their uncomfortable dinner this evening.

A deep seated fear that was only confirmed even more strongly as John sat in the driver's seat of Sam's Camaro in the salvage yard and looked at the odometer.

One of the perks of having helped build his son's car, was knowing exactly what the mileage was when they gave Sammy the keys. A mileage that was now _much_ greater than any distance that Sam would have been able to cover under his current driving restrictions.

" _Where the hell did you go, kiddo?_ "

John rubbed his face with both hands until the skin started to feel raw, as the realization dawned on him that he might not have as much time as he hoped for.

There couldn't be any secrets kept from John about his younger son's activities anymore. Sooner than he was ready to handle, he was going to have to share with Dean the frightening truth about his little brother.

/

Dean is cutting up avocados and smiling, his back turned to the rowdy bunch of kids crammed around the kitchen table who are babbling loudly over the crunch of tortilla chips. He throws a look over his shoulder to catch a quick glimpse of his brother.

In the center of the long bench, Sam is grinning with all the dimples as he draws a silly picture illustrating the relationship between dyne centimeters and ergs, whatever the hell they are.

 _Adorable little nerd_ , his big brother thinks fondly as he goes back to mixing up the bowl of guacamole.

The food is just about ready when their doorbell rings. The brothers shoot each other questioning looks because all of the kids are already accounted for. Dean motions for Sam to stay in the kitchen as he moves with cat-like grace towards the front door, mindful of his Colt tucked in the back of his jeans.

Looking through the peephole, Dean grins and shakes his head, unlocking the three deadbolts on the door and opening it to the cute little brunette shivering on the front porch and holding a pan in her arms.

"I hope it's okay if I join you guys?" Alex stammers as she smiles. "I brought brownies."

Dean laughs and moves to the side, relieving her of her dessert and casually noting the lack of trouble she has crossing the Devil's Trap under the welcome mat.

"If you brought chocolate, you can definitely stay," he teases. "Sammy! Get your ass in here."

Sam comes loping in from the kitchen and then stops short when he sees who is with his brother. He blushes for a second before recovering. It shouldn't be so awkward between them. He and Alex have spent a lot of time together working on the play and then studying together at school, but she still makes him a little nervous.

Dean's chuckling as he takes Alex's coat from her and lays it over the stuffed chair with the others.

"Dinner in ten," he says, before he returns to the kitchen, leaving them alone.

Sam hasn't said anything yet, and Alex starts to get a little uncomfortable as he stares at her.

"Do you mind that I came over?" she asks hesitantly. "You _did_ invite me a couple of times."

Sam blinks and recovers, realizing that he is being rude.

" _What_? No! Of course not," he stutters. "I'm glad you're here. Just surprised, is all."

"Okay, good," she laughs, relieved, as they continue to stand by the now closed door. "So...Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam says as he continues to blush. "My brother's an idiot. Still thinks I'm four. Come on. Everyone is in the kitchen."

Alex stops him with a hand to his arm. "Can I wash my hands first?"

"Sure," Sam replies, remembering his manners. "The bathroom's upstairs. I'll show you."

They head up the stairs, moving slowly and throwing each other sweet little grins as they walk. When they get to the second floor, Sam points out the middle door.

"Bathroom's just in there."

Alex hesitates a second and looks at the other doors, both of which are open, revealing two bedrooms.

"So which one is your room," she asks, smiling mischievously.

Sam blinks hard, a little nervous as he feels his face flush again. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck as he nudges his head to the right of the bathroom.

"Um. That one."

"So, can I see it?" Alex doesn't wait for an answer. She grabs him by the hand and tugs him towards his room, and Sam is pleasantly surprised so he goes with it.

As usual, his bedroom is tidy and orderly. Years of living with his dad has drilled neatness into him. He's not the kind of kid that has anything embarrassing laying about. There's no dirty clothes kicked into a corner anywhere, or porn mags shoved under the bed.

"Wow," Alex laughs, looking around. "Are you guys Scandinavian, or something?"

"What?" Sam asks, as his forehead crinkles in confusion. "No. Why?"

Alex smiles and turns around, pointing out the lack of adornments. "You have a very minimalist decorating style."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess." Sam shrugs and sits down on his bed. "Not really into collecting a lot of stuff."

She continues to walk around, stopping in front of his bulging bookshelves. "You've got some great books, though."

He lets her peruse them for a moment before standing back up, knowing that his brother will come investigating if they stay up here much longer. But Alex isn't done snooping. She walks around until she sees the photo of Mom and Dad on his nightstand and picks it up.

"Are these your parents?"

Sam just nods, getting uncomfortable, because he doesn't like to talk about them.

"Your mom is pretty."

And he nods again, because, _yeah,_ she was.

"You look a lot like your dad," she observes, glancing back between Sam and the photo. "Is he military?" she asks, pointing out John's fatigues.

"He was," Sam answers, gently taking the photo from her and replacing it, not wanting to continue this line of conversation. "Marines. But he retired."

She gets the hint, smiles again, and then glances at his bed.

"That explains the neat bed. I never make mine. Too lazy. But I bet you could bounce a quarter off of yours," she teases.

Then Sam laughs, but doesn't mention how many times he's actually had to do that to please his father.

They stare at each other for a minute. Both of them shy, and a little awkward. Sam could get lost in those beautiful blue eyes peering up at him and, before he knows it, he's reaching down to take her hand in his.

Alex looks down at their intertwined fingers and uses her thumb to gently rub a small scar on his index finger. Sam cut himself once when he was ten, while Dad was teaching him how to throw his bowie knife, but that's not a story he's particularly willing to share.

Instead, he hesitates for half a heartbeat before he leans down and kisses her softly on the mouth. She smells like French Vanilla, and her kiss tastes like cinnamon gum, and when he goes in for a second one, she inhales deeply and allows it.

He uses his other hand to take a hold of her free one and they just stand there for a moment, before a loud voice bellows from down below.

"Sammy! Dinner!"

Sam smiles and shakes his head before he leads Alex back to the bathroom. He waits outside while she washes up and then he takes her hand again and they descend the stairs together.

Dinner is a lively event as usual.

A place at the already crowded table was made for Alex before they even made it to the kitchen. Bowls of food are passed around while Dean is frying more tortillas on the stove. Everyone is laughing and joking and eating with their mouths too full, but no one cares.

Sam looks around the table at his friends. Sees his brother catch his eye from across the room and smiles knowingly, because Dean isn't a fool. The warmth of Alex's hand in his under the table makes him sigh happily over the feeling.

Right now, life is pretty good.

/


	12. April 2001

Thank you to everyone that is reading, and especially those that are reviewing. You don't know how it helps to have feedback from the people following my story! I love to acknowledge my reviewers personally via PM when I can, but for those guests (Kathy, Katy etc) please know that I am very thankful for yours too!

/

It's still pitch black outside as he sits on the edge of his bed and rubs his eyes, trying to get circulation flowing.

He yawns, clears his throat and then gets up to shuffle down the hall to the bathroom.

Flips on the light. Takes a quick peek in the mirror.

Declares himself a _handsome devil._

Lifts the toilet seat up. Yawns. Takes care of business.

 _Jumps back_ _in horror_ when a yellow waterfall cascades over the edges and spreads threateningly towards his bare feet.

 _What the fu…_

Sees the plastic wrap stretched over the bowl.

" _SAM!"_

 _/_

He's sweaty after the morning run.

Climbs the stairs to his room and strips to his boxes. Grabs clean clothes out of the closet and tosses them on his bed.

Heads next door and leans over to turn on the hot water nozzle in the tub.

Lets the water run. Grabs his shaving kit from the counter next to the sink.

Leans back over, checks the temp and then adds the cold water to the mix until it's comfy.

Shucks his boxers and steps into the tub. Flips the controller for the shower head.

 _Jumps back_ _three feet_ and slams against the wall tiles when a dark red spray erupts from the head and spills all over his skin.

Swears colorfully, eyes wide, suddenly wanting his gun because something evil is lurking in the house.

Stops and recognizes the scent of Tropical Punch Kool-Aid, _not_ blood.

Feels the grainy fruity sugar coating his sweaty chest.

" _DEAN!"_

/

He smiles when he hears the scream from the shower upstairs.

Gives himself an _atta boy_ punch to his shoulder.

Grabs yesterday's box of doughnuts.

Pours a cup of coffee, snags the last jelly, even though it's his brother's favorite.

 _Snooze you lose, kiddo._

Takes a big slurp of French roast, then shoves half the doughnut in his mouth.

Immediately gags on the salty, syrupy taste of ketchup as he spits the whole thing into the trash.

" _DON'T mess with a man's pastry, Sam!_ "

/

He's _finally_ got all the red food dye off his skin.

Glares at his brother when he walks into the kitchen.

Smirks seeing the remnants of the ketchup doughnut in the trash.

Returns the one fingered salute leveled in his direction as he grabs the pitcher of OJ from the fridge.

Pulls a glass down from the shelf and pours. Still smirking as he takes a swig.

Immediately spits it across the room. A watery, salty funk coating his mouth.

Looks over to his grinning brother maliciously waving an empty Kraft box in front of his eyes.

" _Cheese powder? Seriously? Jerk."_

/

He goes back upstairs. Brushes his teeth. Checks the mirror again.

 _Still_ a handsome devil.

Grabs his deodorant.

Applies liberally. Because the ladies _love_ a man that smells good.

Grimaces when the usually powdery gloss leaves a gloppy, slimy trail under his arm pit.

Looks at the applicator with revulsion as the sloppy smear clumps all over the top.

Storms back downstairs. Throws his _Speedstick_ across the table until it slams against his brother's cereal bowl.

" _Cream cheese? That's just wrong, dude."_

Brother shrugs, smirks and goes back to his granola.

/

They head out to the driveway to start the day.

He looks forlornly at the sixty-seven Chevy. Laments the lack of opportunities to mess with her.

A smart kid, he knows better.

Brother would _murder_ him in a thousand painful ways if he even thought about touching the car today.

Goes to his own vehicular beauty.

Smiles lovingly at her sleek lines.

Says goodbye to his brother and opens the driver's side door.

 _Screams_ like a three year old girl with a skinned knee.

Loses his balance and lands hard on his ass on the ground. The monster in the seat smiles menacingly at him.

Breathes deeply. Tries desperately to slow his racing heart. Crab walks further away from his car.

Brother sighs.

Realizes he has gone _too far_.

Brother grabs the cheap clown doll out of the driver's seat of the Camaro. Flings it over the fence into the neighbor's yard.

Reaches down and offers a helping hand.

Still shaking, little brother takes it and is hauled to his feet as big brother pats him affectionately on the back.

" _Truce?"_

" _Truce."_

April Fool's Day _Prank Wars_ comes to an early end.

/

It had been bad enough when Dean was forced to confess to his little eight year old brother what Dad's real job was.

He was kind of put on the spot.

Sammy had stolen Dad's journal. Even knowing fully well the storm that would be unleashed upon him when their father got back. Like a dog or, in the case, an adorable puppy with a bone, he wasn't going to let it go.

Finally Dean felt compelled to spill, because the kid was all pleading doe eyes and begging for the truth.

And Dean had never been able to deny his brother _anything_ if he could give it to him.

So he told the boy about the reality of monsters, and why they moved around so much. What John was up against on a regular basis, and why he couldn't be with them as much as they wanted him to be.

It was a day that Dean had been dreading for years.

Desperately hoping that Sammy would get to be an innocent kid, for just a little while longer.

Knowing the truth about the evils lurking in the world hadn't ever made Dean sleep any better at night.

They were parked in another shit hole motel room in Broken Bow, Nebraska. Christmas would dawn in a few hours. There was no tree, no presents and _no Dad_. It was bad enough already.

Telling Sammy the truth about the supernatural world had been hard.

Realizing, _too late_ , that he had also destroyed the kid's belief in Santa had been _worse_.

In true Sammy fashion, the questions had been coming too fast, the answers too hard to give easily. Dean was sputtering and struggling to make his terrified little brother understand that they weren't in any danger, and that Dad would be okay because, well, Dad was _the best_.

Then Sammy had asked if Santa was real, and Dean had said _No_ before he even remembered that Sammy was still just a little eight year old boy that needed something _nice_ to believe in, and Dean had just single-handedly made him believe in fear and evil and disbelieve in goodness and happiness.

It wasn't a mistake he was going to make a second time.

When Easter came around a few months later, Dean had been planning ahead of time to give his little brother some childhood faith again.

He had been squirreling away a few dollars here and there, not entirely convinced that Dad could be counted on to deliver some holiday treats this time. When he did finally talk to Dad about preserving the Easter Bunny for Sammy, John, still guilty about missing Christmas, had been more than willing.

When Sammy woke up Easter Sunday, the motel room was colorfully decorated with eggs and large Easter baskets overflowing with treats. Two of them, against Dean's protests of wasting money, because Dad insisted that _big boys get candy too_. Sammy easily bought the idea that the Easter Bunny had stopped by because he knew Dean didn't have the money for all this stuff, and Sam's faith in John was already tarnished beyond fixing.

Plastic eggs were filled with goodies and hidden around the room, waiting for Sammy to find them, and a stuffed rabbit was tucked in bed next to him. Sammy had loved the rabbit. He named it Martin, because he was a weird little kid, and it would continue to travel with them in the car for almost a year until it accidentally got left behind after a ghoul hunt in Missouri.

This time, when Sammy, wide eyed and beaming, asked Dean if the Easter Bunny was real, his big brother had looked him straight in the eye and said _Yes_.

The tradition went on for a few more years. John inevitably became increasingly forgetful of holidays, but Dean would start saving right after Christmas, which was never a big deal anymore since Sam was uninterested in celebrating it.

Picking up a little at a time, the older brother had become more clever about hiding stuff away until he could surprise Sammy with it on Easter Sunday, thrilled when the innocent happiness of a kid shined in his little brother's eyes for a few minutes.

When Sam was eleven, just a few months shy of his twelfth birthday, they were in a drug store buying some more over the counter pain relief. Sam was unnaturally quiet, and it took a moment for Dean to realize that his little brother was examining the explosion of Easter merchandise on sale. He knew immediately, from the look of introspection and resignation on Sam's face, that the jig was up.

" _I know the Easter Bunny isn't real, Dean."_

And Dean had shaken his head, beyond sad that this last vestige of childhood and wonderment was gone from his little brother's life. Realistically, he had known for some time that Sammy knew already, but it was amazing what you could make yourself believe when you were desperate enough to hope for some happiness and innocent wonderment.

Both brothers has stubbornly clung to that little fantasy for as long as they could. Sammy would say that he stopped believing at eleven. Dean would have argued that he was twelve, because _seriously_ , it was pretty close. Eventually, they agreed on eleven _and a half_.

Sam's newly admitted knowledge didn't change Dean's desire to give his little brother some holiday fun. There wasn't much he could do for the kid as it was, with Halloween and Christmas almost completely off the table, and Thanksgiving a booze soaked event with Dad home and grieving. But he could still do Easter, so he did.

As Sam got older, the treats changed.

Toys and stuffed animals became books and school supplies. There was still some candy, but the plastic eggs went from being filled solely with chocolate and jelly beans to also containing some spending money. At first it was dimes and quarters. Then it progressed to ones and fives. Now, as Dean pulled the plastic package of colorful egg shells out of the bag, he had a small stack of tens and twenties to fill them with.

Sammy was out at the movies with Alex.

He didn't have to be home for curfew until midnight, and there was _no way_ he would be back even one second sooner, so Dean was confident that he could play Easter Bunny without getting caught. Not that Sam wouldn't know what he was doing. It was the one time during the year that sifting through his little brother's things was allowed so that eggs could be hidden.

Dean was methodical enough to color coordinate the contents. Pink eggs contained chocolate. Yellow ones had jelly beans. _Minus the black ones that Dean picked out and ate while he filled, because Sammy was still a weird kid that didn't like the awesomeness that was licorice._ Blue eggs had ten dollar bills, and green ones had twenties.

 _See what I did there, Sammy? Green? Big bills? Huh? Huh?_

He smiled to himself and ate another handful of jelly beans.

There was a basket too, filled with the bigger candy, some paperback books, and gift certificates for places where Sam liked to shop and take his girlfriend. That would wait until he could sneak it into Sam's room while the kid slept. For now, he grabbed the shopping bag he had put the filled eggs back into and headed upstairs.

It was nice doing simple things like this, and Dean had always been willing to do anything to make his little brother smile.

He genuinely enjoyed darting around Sammy's room and coming up with creative hiding spaces. An egg in the toe of a running shoe. In the pocket of a pair of school khakis hanging in the closet. Some hidden among the books on his shelves. Another one hidden here, another one there. A few strictly containing money in Sammy's go-bag, because there was no telling when he would use it next. No one wanted stale candy hanging around, and emergency cash was _always_ a good thing.

With most of the eggs cleverly distributed around the room, he turned his attention to the dresser for the remaining few. He also grabbed the other non-Easter related item out of the bag and smirked. Opening the top drawer of the dresser, where Sam kept his boxers and socks, Dean wedged the new box of condoms right into the middle, not even trying to be subtle.

Sammy was a _prude._

There were just no two ways about it. Dean would deny it to his dying breath, but he was actually pleased about that fact. His little brother didn't have the cavalier attitude about women and sex that Dean had, and that was perfectly okay. For all of Dean's talk about wanting his brother to lighten up and have some fun, he understood that Sam would only allow himself to be intimate with someone he really cared about.

It was sweet, and innocent, and anything that Dean could do to promote those feelings in the kid, he would. Because most of Sammy's innocence had been lost when he was eight years old, and there wasn't much Dean could spare him from, so he was pleased that a little of it had remained.

Not that Sammy didn't have a full working knowledge of the facts of life from an unfortunately early age.

You don't grow up the way they did, in some of the places that they did, and not understand the nature of the primal noises you heard in the motel units around you. The first time one of their neighbors had become incredibly vocal, Sammy had wanted the brothers to rush in next door and save the poor screaming woman, because that's _what they did_ , right?

And Dean had to sit him down and haltingly explain why she wouldn't have wanted them to.

Dad had tried to give Sammy _the talk_ when he was ten, because their lifestyle matured the boys significantly faster than regular kids, and John always made sure that his sons were prepared for _anything_.

It was the most uncomfortable Dean had ever seen their father.

By then, his little brother was already so book smart that it was hard to keep up with him, and when John attempted to explain about the birds and the bees to his young son, Sammy had very clinically outlined his understanding of the reproductive process to Dad in such detail that the older hunter was stammering until he finally ended the conversation with

" _Just keep it covered up. Every time."_

And then Dad left, scratching his head and muttering about _too-smart-for-their-own-good_ kids.

Sammy and Alex had been officially a couple for a while now, since her first study group session, and Dean could tell that his little brother was smitten. Whereas Sam's relationship with that girl Kristin had been more lustful infatuation than anything else, because sometimes a really hot chick could do that to you, Sammy was like a love struck puppy these days.

Alex was _perfect_ , according to little brother. She was the _smartest._ And the _funniest_. And the _sweetest_. She was incredibly _clever_ , and _talented_ and she practically _walked on water._

It was ridiculously adorable listening to the way Sammy waxed poetic about all her many attributes.

Dean liked her too. Much better than he had the blonde cheerleader. The cute little brunette had a gentle sweetness about her that was genuine. She clearly worshiped Sam as much as he adored her, but she was still independent enough to not take any of his crap either, and Dean respected that.

Sometimes Sammy could get a little snippy and bossy, and if anyone knew that, it was Dean.

Not that Sam would ever have treated Alex _badly_. Both Dad and Dean would have kicked his ass if he did, and he knew it. Winchester men _always_ treated a lady with respect, especially the youngest one. Actually, it was Sam's over eagerness to be chivalrous that sometimes had him behaving a little more protectively than he needed to, and it brought out more of a possessive attitude in him.

Alex didn't let him get away with that kind of nonsense, and she would metaphorically smack him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper if he started acting too much like a little bitchy caveman. While Sam would crab and fight with Dean if Dean said something about his attitude, when it came from Alex, Sammy just tucked his tail and apologized.

Of course, Sam also had the dewy eyed, sensitive thing going on too, and it made Alex swoon just as much as every other girl.

Dean knew, without needing to be told, that his little brother had very little experience with girls.

They never stayed in one place long enough for Sam to get as attached as he personally needed to be with a girl to do more than some heavy kissing. He was also not the kind of guy that would talk about his sex life, even with his older brother, but Dean knew him well enough that the younger boy would not have been able to hide whether or not he had gone all the way with a girl.

It was becoming clearer that Sam was getting heavily involved right now, and Dean suspected that it might only be a matter of time. While it was true that Sam might approach him for some brotherly advice, as he had done in the past, Dean wasn't going to take any chances. He was supportive of the idea, if Sam felt ready, and he would help make it as easy and safe as possible.

Someday, Dean would make the world's most awesome uncle, but it wasn't going to be any time soon if he had anything to say about it.

Smiling again, he closed the top drawer, wondering how many shades of red Sammy would blush upon finding the little box when he got dressed tomorrow.

 _Well, kiddo. If you can't talk about it, you shouldn't be doing it, right?_

With the most critical mission accomplished, he continued down to the other drawers to finish hiding the plastic egg treasures. Just as he was almost done in the bottom drawer, he shoved aside a pair of old sweats to hide the one egg he had put a fifty in, only to freeze when the space under the pants revealed more than just the bottom wood of the drawer.

 _University of Sioux Falls_

 _1101 W. 22nd_

 _Sioux Falls, SD 57105_

 _Dear Mr. Winchester,_

 _We are pleased to offer you admission for the Fall Semester of 2001….._

 _/_

 _Minnesota State University_

 _122 Taylor Center_

 _Mankato, MN 56001_

 _Dear Mr. Winchester,_

 _It is our pleasure to offer you a place at our university for the 2001 Fall Term….._

 _/_

 _Office of Undergraduate Admission  
Stanford University  
355 Galvez Street  
Stanford, CA 94305-6106 _

_Dear Mr. Winchester,_

 _I am pleased to inform you that your application for admission for Fall 2001 has been favorably reviewed by our Admission Committee…_..

/

Crouching on the back of his heels, Dean felt the wind knocked directly out of him. As if taking a punch to the gut, a large _whoosh_ of air pushed out of his lungs and knocked him down hard on his ass on the wood floor.

He held the creased sheets of paper in his trembling hands and scanned them again, mentally struggling to make sense of the words. Blood rushed to his ears as his heart rate picked up, leaving an increasing buzzing sensation that was positively disorienting, and suddenly it was nearly impossible to comprehend written English.

Dean wasn't sure what was more painful.

Realizing that his little brother was indeed making firm plans to leave the family for the safe and normal apple pie life he had been harping on about for years?

Or the excruciating knowledge that Sam had done all of this _behind Dean's back_?

As his chest ached painfully, hurt blossoming through every vein, the older brother had to acknowledge that it was much more the latter, rather than the former.

It wasn't that Sam wanting to go off to college was necessarily breaking news.

Dean wasn't an idiot.

He had known practically since Sammy had learned to read that his little brother would be more than happy to spend the rest of his life buried in a library. Studying weird crap like _Nineteenth Century French Poetry_ and the _History of Ancient Aztecan Basket Weaving_ , or some other similarly useless shit that a Winchester didn't need. Reading a million books a week as long as they had nothing to do with a hunt.

Sam had certainly babbled on and on about the various institutions of higher learning as they traveled around the country. Sometimes even going so far as to beg his big brother to detour fucking miles out of the way just to see them.

It was simply one of those things that Dean hadn't given much credence to. He had always accepted that the brothers had to go to high school because, otherwise, it could cause a lot of legal trouble for Dad. But it had always been known that after high school, there would be no more need for higher ed.

They had a job to do. _Period_.

College was just an abstract and unnecessary concept that existed outside the Winchester Family universe.

Now, after seeing the letter from Stanford, it didn't take Sammy's genius IQ to figure out where the kid had taken off to in February. _Motel just outside of San Francisco_ , huh?

Yeah, _sure_.

Even _Dean the Grunt_ knew where Stanford was located. But then again, Sam had made a lifetime of underestimating his big brother, and Dean had never felt the need to correct the kid.

Sometimes he wondered if his little brother really knew him at all.

Sammy was in for a shock if he thought that Dean never had any higher ambitions for himself than a GED.

Would it have surprised the kid to know that Dean and Sonny had talked on more than one occasion about what could happen after high school if Dean stayed in Hurleyville?

 _Yeah. Probably._

At the time, Dean hadn't been entirely sure that his father would forgive him enough to welcome him back into the family fold, and there had been scary nights when the young boy was floundering and drifting aimlessly. Wondering if maybe his life would be forced to take a different path if he was no longer allowed to be a hunter at John's side.

But it wasn't either of things that hurt the most.

Since when did Sammy feel like he couldn't talk about something with his big brother?

At what point in their relationship had Dean become unapproachable as Sam's most supportive confidante? He had always devoted his life to being there for his little brother in every way possible, and yet the kid couldn't bring himself to share this kind of monumental decision?

To be fair, Dean had to admit that he wouldn't have encouraged it. Dad would flip _right the fuck out_ if he knew that Sam had even _thought_ about applying to colleges. Let alone actually applied and was sitting on three acceptances.

Not that Sammy wouldn't have been accepted anywhere he wanted to go. The kid was a freakin' Einstein and any school would be _lucky_ to have him, and if they didn't realize that, then maybe Dean would need to make a trip to one of those fancy ivory towers and _convince them_.

In the nicest possible way, of course.

Well... _maybe_ the nicest possible way.

No, actually. Probably not.

 _Anyway..._

The unfortunate truth was that their family were hunters, first and foremost. Sam had a responsibility to their family, their mother especially, and to unsuspecting innocent civilians at large. He had an obligation to take everything their father had taught them their entire lives and use it for the greater good.

Anyone could go to college and drink and fuck around for four years. Only a dedicated few got to truly save the world.

Little brother was just going to need to get that through his head.

Dean scooted backwards across the floor until his back was pressed against the foot board of Sam's bed. Crossing his legs and forcing himself to re-read the letters, just to make sure. All of his hoping and planning for the future was suddenly vanishing like a puff of misguided and ill advised smoke with every word staring back at him from the heavy weight sheets of stationary clutched in his unsteady hands.

How many times had he thought about how much he was looking forward to getting back out to the hunt with his little brother riding shotgun as his trusty geek boy sidekick?

How many nights had he spent pacing the floors of the little rental house, stressed and on edge because their father was out _somewhere_ on his own? No one watching his back, or there to help tend injuries, because his kids were far away doing regular boring shit in South Dakota.

No one to make sure John remembered to eat, because Sam came by his single minded obsessive behavior honestly, or to make him put down the whiskey bottle long enough to climb into an actual bed and get real sleep, instead of just passing out listlessly in a chair.

And what was Sammy even thinking?

The kid didn't really expect their father to just be _okay_ with this, did he? Even if Dad didn't need them hunting by his side, there was absolutely _no way_ that he would allow his youngest to just trot off to college like a civilian. Living in some random vanilla dorm with a bunch of reality-ignornant snot nosed co-eds.

Alone. Unprotected. _Vulnerable_.

Not fucking happening, kiddo.

Dean knew how hard it had been for their father to let his boys stay in one place so long already. He could see it in Dad's face, every time they were together. That ever present pinch and tension in his forehead as his eyes skipped nervously around the perimeter of the house, as if he was expecting an invasion at any moment.

How Dad was sneaking into town more and more often than he even let his kids know, just to scope things out.

Dean had caught sight of his father's truck, and his father himself in an assortment of boosted cars, on more than one occasion over the past few months. They didn't speak about it together, but Dean wasn't an idiot. He knew that Dad saw Dean seeing Dad.

It was a dance.

It was a stakeout.

Hunting _each other_.

Dad was watching for something. _Scared_ of something.

Inwardly, Dean had hoped that his father was proud of him for skillfully utilizing the training he had been given. It took real finesse to find John Winchester if he was trying to blend in, and it was only because Dean knew his father better than anyone else in the world that he had been able to do it.

Realistically, Dean knew that they couldn't keep asking their father to take on all of the hunts he managed alone, as well as force him to continue to circle around where his kids were living. Like an overprotective hawk, sharp eyed, scared and worried for his sons' safety when they were too far from him for too long.

While Dean had given plenty of thought to keeping their house for as long as he could reasonably manage it, it was meant to be a place of relaxation and respite for all three of them. _Together._ Somewhere they could go in between hunts to recharge their batteries, and maybe feel like a regular family for a few days a month.

Because it was more than time for them to be back out into the world. Doing what the Winchesters did best.

Hunting things. Saving people. _The Family Business_.

The sooner that Sammy realized this, the better. The kid could spend the next ten years at Wussy State and _still_ never learn as much as he already knew from studying at their father's side, making sure that no one ever needed to suffer the same kind of pain and loss as their family had.

He took a deep breath, rubbing a hand down his face, and ruthlessly shoved back crushing thoughts of betrayal and abandonment to the back of his mind. If he let himself think about what it would be like to not have his little brother in his life _every single day_ , the pain might just completely and utterly overwhelm him.

If that happened, he wouldn't be able to summon the energy needed to get up off of this floor and carefully replace the offending letters under the sweats.

Sam would know, as soon as he saw the plastic eggs in the drawer, that the jig was up. So Dean took the egg with the fifty and left it lying directly on top of the letters at the bottom of the drawer, underneath the old sweats, so there would be no question.

It was up to Sam now, as to when and how he would bring it up with his big brother.

/

At seven minutes after midnight, Dean heard the purr of the Camaro's engine pull up in the driveway. A minute later, Sam came strolling through the front door, looking carefree and happy.

The way that Dean liked to see him.

Too often Sam was sedate and serious, unable to take anything easily, and always, always, _always_ overthinking every little aspect of his life. It could be endearing sometimes, his little brother's earnestness, but it also just made Dean sad on occasion that the kid had such trouble lightening up.

When Sam was truly happy, nothing warmed his big brother's heart more than to see him smile and laugh.

The younger boy grinned a huge dimpled greeting and dropped down on the couch next to where Dean was watching a late movie on AMC. Mind concentrated elsewhere, he wasn't even paying attention to the plot of the black and white picture playing on the screen. Dean glanced at his watch, frowned and turned to glare at his brother.

"You're late."

The tone of his voice was definitely harsher than he was actually intending it to be, and the cheery smile that had been on Sam's face just scant seconds ago vanished, leaving behind a nervous frown and worried and apologetic eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled, eyes dropping to his lap. "I didn't realize..."

Dean took in a deep breath and mentally chastised himself for his tone. For being the asshole that wiped the happy grin from the kid's face so immediately.

It was only his lingering hurt from his earlier findings that was coloring his temper. Honestly, he hadn't even realized the time before his brother came into the house. Sammy could be a few minutes late. It wasn't the end of the world and Dean had never snapped at him for it before.

He took another deep breath, pushed back his own hurt, checked his temper, and nudged Sam's knee to get his attention.

Sammy had the kind of face that could look every year of his age, _and then some_ , but it could also revert to that of a five year old little boy when he was scolded, like it did right now. Dean swore under his breath, because he didn't like to see his little brother so upset over something so ridiculously trivial.

"It's okay, Sammy. Just wondering if anything bad happened to make you late, is all."

It was a lame excuse, but fortunately it seemed to work since Sam peeked up through his long bangs and gave him a small smile.

"Alex is a good kisser," he said shyly as he blushed.

 _That's my boy.._

Dean smirked and raised an eyebrow knowingly.

"Oh yeah, I bet," he teased, getting his brother laughing. "So what emo, angst filled chick flick did she drag you to this time?"

" _Bridget Jones' Diary_ ," Sam muttered, eyes squinting in revulsion. Dean didn't even miss a beat.

"Dude, for that level of torture, she better've let you get to at least second base."

Sam blushed even more and he squirmed uncomfortably.

"Don't be disgusting. She's not like that," Sam protested, just as his stomach growled loudly.

Immediately the younger boy scowled at his brother's put upon sigh, as Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. It was nearly impossible to keep Sam fed these days.

"Seriously, if you don't stop growing, I'm never standing next to you again," he threatened. "C'mon."

Dean stood up and beckoned his little brother to follow him as he strode into the kitchen. Like an overly large floppy puppy, Sam loped behind and then dropped down into his usual chair at the table.

"Didn't you get anything to snack on at the movie?" Dean asked, dragging a frying pan out from under the counter, putting it on the stove before buttering four slices of bread.

"Yeah, but the popcorn was stale and gross, and I let Alex have all the candy."

Grabbing the deli package of sliced cheese from the fridge, Dean generously layered the grilling bread and pulled out a gallon of milk and two glasses. Then he reached in for the container of cut up fruit that Sam liked to keep available, scooped out a bowl and put it in front of his brother with a fork.

By the time the grilled cheeses were toasted and melting, Sam had already demolished the fruit and was on his second glass of milk. It only took an additional two minutes for the boy to devour the gooey sandwich and chug the rest of the milk before he sat back in his chair and sighed happily.

"Better?" Dean was smirking and his green eyes were dancing with affectionate indulgence.

"Oh, God. _Yes._ I was starving, and you make killer grilled cheese," Sam murmured contentedly, rubbing his belly.

"Yeah, I know. I'm awesome."

With little brother fed and happy, Dean stood back up and gathered the plates, tossing them in the sink.

"Okay, kiddo. It's late. Time for little Sammys to be in bed."

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he made no move to stand up.

"Wait. Can I talk to you a minute?"

Dean stood at the sink with his back turned and immediately stiffened. Sam frowned, wondering why his brother was suddenly on edge, but a few seconds later the older boy turned back around and leaned against the counter, arms crossed casually over his chest.

"Shoot."

Sam shifted nervously in his chair for a moment and cleared his throat, knowing that he was most likely about to get shot down. But Alex had been pressing him all night, so he needed to at least try.

"The theater is having a _Rocky Horror_ night in two weeks," he started haltingly, sporting his best puppy eyes, "and all the kids in the drama club are getting dressed up and going."

Dean raised a questioning eyebrow and slowly nodded, encouraging his little brother to continue.

"Yeah...and?"

"And...I wanna go."

"So, go," Dean said confused, as he shrugged. "As long as Dad doesn't need us that weekend, why would I stop you?"

"My curfew is midnight on the weekends," Sam explained, unnecessarily, because Dean knew what it was.

Dean nodded, giving him a look to prompt him to continue, wondering exactly what he was missing here.

"It doesn't _start_ until midnight," Sam clarified, quickly hiding back behind his ridiculous hair, but peeking up hopefully.

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to immediately refuse. Because that's what Dad would expect him to do. The rules were clear, and had been since August. Sam should know better than to even ask in the first place. Their father's word was law in the house, even though the man himself was seldom around, and Dean had been very clear all year about his intention to uphold the rules.

But then Dean thought about the letters he had found earlier.

The ones practically _screaming_ that Sam was looking to escape the harsh confines of John's strict authority. The ones that were giving Sam a path that strayed dangerously away from the protection and safety of his family.

In deep contemplation for a moment, Dean gave his little brother a good hard look.

While in Dean's mind Sam would always be this small, adorably clingy boy that needed to be guarded and kept on the straight and narrow, he was clearly growing up.

Not just physically, because it didn't matter to Dean if the kid grew to be _eight_ feet tall. His big brother would always stand guard in front of him and protect him with everything Dean had to give. But Sam was also maturing in so many other ways.

As much as it hurt to give up even an inch of the invisible security blanket Dean had wrapped Sam in since his birth, he knew his little brother was craving a little more freedom at his age. No matter how badly the core part of Dean's very existence wanted to shield Sam and keep him from any hurt or harm, he knew the kid had to be suffocating a little right now.

When Dean had been Sam's age, their father had given his oldest son so much more freedom and independence. Sure, he had the enormous responsibility of a little brother to look after and keep safe, but Dean was still able to go out and about more or less at will.

And let's be perfectly honest...

Most of the time Dean hadn't been doing things nearly as innocent and wholesome as a late movie with a bunch of kids that were just as geeky as his little brother.

 _Maybe_ if Sam's leash was loosened a little, he wouldn't be struggling so hard to get away.

 _Maybe_ if he could see that things could be different now that he was getting older, and could be given more freedom to enjoy life, he wouldn't feel the need to run all the way to _California_ to escape the stifling clutches of his well meaning and protective family just to be able _breathe._

"Okay."

Sam's eyes shot open wide, as if he couldn't believe what his brother just said.

"Okay?" he asked, confused and blinking fast.

"Yep," Dean said, nodding. "If Dad doesn't call for us, you can go. Just check in with me and be careful."

Sam gave him a huge smile with all the dimples, like the affectionate little nerd he was.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, waving him away. "Now hit the rack, Cinderfella. Your gigantic body needs sleep."

Sam got up from the table and gave his big brother one more small smile.

"Night, jerk."

Dean's heart squeezed painfully from the long term endearment, and he forced a smile of his own.

"Night, bitch."

/

Sam _loved_ Sundays.

It was the one day a week that he was allowed to sleep in.

All of the running and training was still expected to be done, but it could wait until later in the day. There was also an additional hour of target practice with his Taurus, but Sam really didn't mind that one, because he actually liked to shoot for recreation purposes.

He wasn't quite sure how his brother had managed to get their father to agree to a late training day at all, because it didn't matter to John Winchester what day of the week it was. He was up and running _every single day_ at dawn.

Rain or shine or snow.

Stone cold sober, hungover or sometimes still drunk. It didn't matter.

So, on Sundays, the Winchester brothers would lounge in bed a little while longer, as long as they weren't on a job. At home in Sioux Falls, with no school and no work requiring their presence, they would relax and catch up on missed sleep.

Sam would usually wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon, because when they had the time his brother would always make Sam's favorite breakfast foods that he didn't allow himself to indulge in during the week.

Dad still made the best pancakes, but Dean was getting better every week, and it wasn't unusual for the brothers to go through an entire pound of bacon between the two of them.

Of course, Dean was _mostly_ responsible for that, but who was keeping track?

They would bring their plates to the living room, along with steaming mugs of coffee, and watch movies on VHS from a collection that had been growing all year. Dean had made Sam watch the original _Godzilla_ a million times already, but that was okay because Sam was getting in his shots with _Time Bandits._ They were pretty evenly matched at this point.

It was close to noon before Sam hazily smelled the telltale aroma of frying meat wafting up the stairs.

The sun was streaming in his window and warming his face. He smiled with his eyes still shut, stretching lazily under the blanket, and looking forward to a pile of fluffy cakes drowning in syrup as his stomach loudly announced its desire to be fed.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked them open, immediately catching sight of a bright yellow weaved basket perched on his dresser. Stuffed with an enormous chocolate rabbit, movie theater sized boxes of candy, books and tiny envelopes. Next to it was a three feet tall Bugs Bunny, and Sam laughed as he belatedly remembered what day it was. His heart was bursting with affection for his dorky big brother who insisted on Sam celebrating Easter like he was still a little kid.

Another lazy stretch, Sam smiling a mile wide, as he scanned the room more closely for the inevitable colorful traces of plastic eggs that he had obviously missed last night. Idly wondering how much he was going to be able to add to his cash stash.

It was going to make taking Alex out significantly easier with a little extra in his pocket. Silly, stupid, wonderfully awesome big brother.

So blissed out, it took him a moment too long to give thought to the bottom drawer of his dresser, knowing how thorough Dean was about hiding the eggs.

 _Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit_

In a flash he was out of the bed and on his knees in front the dresser, frantically opening the bottom drawer and rifling through his sweats. Sure enough, under his black sweats with the hole in the right knee, was a green egg.

Sitting directly on top of his acceptance letters.

There was absolutely _no way_ Dean had not seen them.

Sam shut his eyes tightly, cursing himself in English _and_ Latin, and willing his speeding heart rate to slow down before he passed out, right there on his bedroom floor.

In his mind, he had practiced the speech he would give his brother and his father a million times. A million different ways.

In one version, he tried to be as clear and logical as possible.

Extolling all the benefits of having him go to school and forge a legitimate career where he could be a real asset to the family, instead of merely the third best hunter on a three man team.

In another version, he had already convinced Dean to use his significant and unique talents of persuasion to argue his side against their father.

With his brother backing him up, it was increasingly more likely that Dad would consider the compromises that Sam had already devised and made his peace with. It had been Dean's idea, after all, to take this house, and Sam was hopefully optimistic that his brother could be made to see reason in keeping it.

In a third version, Sam flat out _begged_ his dad to let him continue to go to school.

John could still be a warm and caring father. Sam had seen it on many occasions, especially this past year when the two of them had been able to stow their mutual crap long enough to actually communicate with one another. Surely his father could be made to understand how important college was to his youngest son?

Surely even John _fucking_ Winchester would be proud of his boy for having his future handed to him on a plate for all of his years of hard work?

In a genuinely scary version, Sam simply stated that he was going and damned the consequences.

This was a version that he never wanted to see come to pass. His family meant everything to him, and he desperately wanted to believe that they would want his happiness, just as much as he wanted it for them.

Of course, the more successful of these had hinged on Dean finding out first, _directly_ from Sam, because Dean deserved the respect of being told to his face. And Sam wanted his brother's support.

More than anything.

He truly wanted Dean to understand how much this meant to him. Wanted him to be happy for him and celebrate with him.

To take pleasure in Sam's successes, because they were Dean's successes too.

Without his big brother watching out for him, and making sure that Sam always had everything he needed to navigate through his many many schools, Sam wouldn't have been able to keep it all together as well as he had, and none of these chances would be coming his way.

Without Dean always having his back, Sam could have just been another mediocre student drifting his way through life, like a ship without a rudder to guide him. Sam had done the schoolwork, but Dean had done the sacrificing to make his little brother's years of intense study possible in their impossible situation.

But now Sam had waited too long.

He'd been too nervous and too afraid of Dean responding with less than the full hearted support and enthusiasm that Sam needed to feel okay about what he was planning on doing. His big brother's approval and backing was critical to Sam, because he'd always _had_ it. Without it, the boy wasn't sure that he would have the fortitude needed to strike out on his own.

Dean's unfailing support always been a safety mechanism in life. Even as they fought and bickered and sparred like all brothers, their relationship encompassed so many other nontraditional fraternal roles.

It was Dean's strong arms that were there to fall back into when Sam fell. To catch him when he stumbled, and he _had_ stumbled on several occasions. To tease him, and make sure that Sam didn't take everything quite so personally and seriously, but then to also give him the necessary confidence to go forward knowing that there was always someone in his corner.

Even when Sam couldn't count on anyone, he could always count on Dean.

Deep in his heart, Sam knew that if Dean told him to drop the idea entirely, he wasn't so sure that he would be able to refuse.

It had been _that fear_ that kept him silent. _That fear_ that had stopped him from immediately running into the house to show the letters off. The way Sam had done on dozens of occasions throughout their childhoods. Bringing home crudely made drawings and gold stars and perfect tests.

Hungry for his brother's praise and encouragement.

That's what he had wanted when he finally showed the acceptances to Dean. Giddy and hopeful for a better future, and wanting nothing more than to hear his brother tell Sam how proud he was.

But it was too late for that now.

Now that the cat was out of the bag, Sam was petrified that it was going to be so much worse that Dean had to find out on his own. How hurt and betrayed the older brother had to be, by Sam's lack of confidence in him.

How could he ask Dean to back his play, when he hadn't even given his brother the courtesy of talking to him about it in the first place? Hiding his letters in a drawer like a coward.

Surreptitious and _shameful_.

With shaky hands, Sam withdrew the letters and slowly made his way down to the kitchen.

There was no getting around this anymore.

No more delays.

This conversation was happening whether or not Sam was ready for it, and he was pretty sure that he wasn't. Was pretty sure that he would _never_ really be truly ready for it, but it was here now and the only way out of it was through.

Like a man on his way to the gallows, he walked hesitantly into the kitchen. Dean was standing at the stove, back to Sam's entrance. Flipping another batch of pancakes onto a plate that was already half full. He didn't seem annoyed or upset, as Sam would have expected him to be.

But then of course, Dean had already seen the letters before Sam had even come home last night.

While he must have still been feeling the sting of betrayal by an inconsiderate little brother, Dean had excused Sam's arrival after his curfew. Made him food and took care of him as always. Even allowed him to make plans to be out with his girlfriend long after Dad's rules required Sam to be at home.

Always the caring big brother.

The one that had looked out for Sam since day one. And Sam had done nothing but run away behind his back, on more than one occasion, and hide things from him.

Suddenly, Sam wasn't feeling so great about himself at the moment.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Hungry?"

Dean had turned around long enough to throw Sam a quick smile and nudge his head to prompt Sam to sit at the table. Sliding into the chair, Sam put the letters next to where a place had been set for him, noting that there was already a glass of juice poured and waiting.

"Hey, Dean," Sam muttered, voice choked with misery.

If his brother heard the trembling in Sam's throat, he ignored it. Instead flipping a stack of pancakes on a plate and adding a good pile of bacon. Moving easily, Dean set the plate in front of Sam and shifted the syrup container and the butter dish closer to him.

"You still like blueberries in them, don't cha?"

Another quick glimpse. Just long enough for Sam to give a shaky nod in the affirmative, and then Dean was back to the stove finishing off cooking his own meal. A minute later, Dean had joined Sam at the table and was already devouring half of his bacon while Sam sat without moving or speaking and unable to meet his brother's eyes.

"C'mon dude, your food is getting cold."

Sam looked up long enough to frown guiltily at his brother before Dean went back to his breakfast. They were quiet for another minute while the younger boy worked up the courage to breach the silence.

"Are we going to pretend you didn't see these?" Sam asked softly, pushing the letters towards the center of the table.

Dean shoved a forkful of pancakes in his mouth and took a large gulp from his coffee cup while a few more heartbeats passed.

"If that's how you wanna play it."

"It's not," Sam muttered, raking his hair back. "I've wanted to tell you for a while now."

Dean seemed to consider this. He ate a little more. Had some more coffee. Got up to refill his mug and then one for Sam too, putting it in front of his brother with the creamer and sugar Sam needed.

"Eat, Sammy."

Sam took a deep breath and obeyed by absently nibbling on a strip of bacon, although his appetite had completely vanished since finding the green egg.

"I wanted to tell you the minute they came," he insisted quietly. "I swear."

Dean pushed his plate away and let out a deep breath. He didn't seem angry, which Sam was grateful for, but he wasn't okay either.

"Then why didn't you?"

Putting down the half eaten bacon, Sam raised his eyes to meet his brother's and shot him a pleading look.

"I just didn't know how," he said simply, his whole being begging for understanding. " _I'm sorry._ "

Over in his chair, coffee cup clutched between both of his hands, Dean nodded. He pressed his lips together in contemplation and then rubbed a hand down his face before standing back up to lean against the counter. Sam wasn't surprised by the motion because his brother had always been a better thinker when he was moving.

It was when Dean _didn't_ move that it usually meant trouble.

"Sammy, Dad isn't going to let you go, man. You have to know that already."

"I can make him understand," Sam stated with more confidence than he felt. "I _will_ make him understand."

Dean was shaking his head, clearly not as sure as his brother was. Sam didn't understand their father on a _good_ day, and he certainly didn't understand the lengths that John would go to keep his kids safe.

" _Sam_. Dad is already more nervous than a whore in church as it is," Dean said gently. "I guarantee that he is literally counting the days until your graduation, so he can pull us out of here."

"He can't force me to go, once I'm eighteen," Sam muttered petulantly.

Dean laughed and shook his head at the absurdness of his little brother's statement. As if their father really cared about something as trivial as his son's technical adulthood when it came to his protection.

"Yeah, kiddo," he scoffed, shaking his head. "You be sure to tell him that. But kiss your ass goodbye first, because you'll be losing the use of it."

Sam scowled for a few seconds, but backed down when faced with his brother's far more menacing glare.

"I don't want to see you get your hopes up over something that can't happen," Dean said sympathetically, not liking to see the unhappiness on his brother's face.

Sam waited half a heartbeat and sighed, giving his brother the impression that he had accepted defeat. Only for the boy to purse his lips in determination and sit up a little straighter in his chair.

"It _is_ going to happen, Dean," Sam stated plainly. "I _am_ going. I've already made up my mind. Dad isn't going to change it."

Sighing heavily, Dean shook his head in disbelief, not willing to accept the blindly vehement certainty behind his brother's statements. Sammy couldn't possibly mean that he was just planning on walking away from the job.

From his _family_.

Even his little brother couldn't be _that_ selfish.

"Dad _needs_ us, Sam. You know that," Dean tried to reason.

"Dad needs _you_ , Dean," Sam responded quietly, rubbing his sweaty palms down the front of his pants. "You guys have been hunting together for years, and you're already a better hunter than I'll ever be. Hell, you're as good as Dad is. You'll have his back."

Dean's eyes flared with anger and hurt as his fingers gripped the side of the counter behind him.

"And what about me, Sammy? Who's gonna have _my_ back if you're off in some class somewhere?"

Suddenly, Sam stood up from his chair and strode over to his brother, reaching out to grip Dean's shoulder in his hand as he stared directly in his brother's snapping green eyes.

" _Me_. I'm gonna have your back," he stated firmly. "I'm not falling off the face of the earth, Dean. I'm just going to college. I'll still do all the research. I'll still join you guys on hunts as much as I can."

Sam's plaintive statements were jarring in their insistence, but not necessarily reassuring. Sure, Dean would love to believe that his little brother meant every word he was saying, but it was one thing to make a broad arbitrary statement to keep the peace, and quite another to actually follow through with it when the time came.

The older brother wasn't entirely convinced that when push shoved, Sam would be standing on his six with his Taurus ready for action.

Taking in a deep breath, Dean rubbed his face with the hand not being pinned by his brother's tight grip.

The earnestness in Sam's eyes was fiercely warring with Dean's own desire to keep his little family safe and together, and the big brother was finding himself increasingly worn down and dangerously close to a tentative acceptance of the idea.

Because it had always been tough to deny Sammy _anything_.

"Sam," he started, trying again to be reasonable and swallowing hard as his mouth went dry. "Dad raised us to be hunters. It's our job. Our _lives_."

Sam closed his eyes and sighed deeply, hating that he could literally hear his big brother's heart breaking, but desperately needing to come fully clean and be honest now that Dean knew all his secrets.

"I don't want it to be my life, Dean," he said sadly. "I'm not like you and Dad, and you know that." He took a deep breath frowned sadly. "I'm just not. I'm sorry."

And Dean closed his eyes in resignation, because deep down he knew it was true.

Sammy hated the The Life.

All the way down to the very core of his entire being.

He hated the constant upheaval and the lawlessness of how they normally funded their existence. He hated the pain, and the blood and the violence.

Always living on the edge. Never fully relaxed. Constantly drifting and friendless. Over-caffeinated and forced to forever be on alert and observant. Always expecting the next shit storm coming at them.

The uncertainty of one, or two or _all_ of them not making it out of a fight in one piece or even alive. Forever chasing this big evil invisible murdering monster that had taken their mother, along with any semblance of a regular life for any of them.

For years Dean had unwillingly harbored the very real truth that someday Sam would walk away from the job. From the _family_. He never admitted it out loud, because actually saying it would somehow make this random, abstract concept all too real.

But he had somehow just always _known._

The first time that Dean had gone on a hunt, just himself with their father, leaving Sam behind in a motel room, alone and scared, with nothing but his imaginary friend to comfort him, Dean had spent two days forcing himself to push the frightened face of his little brother out of his mind as he worked.

When they returned and stepped exactly one foot in the door, Sam had thrown himself at his big brother like he had been shot across the room from a cannon. Trembling like a tiny, needy octopus, arms and legs impossibly wrapped around Dean's thirteen year old body.

Dean could tell from his little brother's face that Sammy hadn't eaten or slept the entire time they were gone, and it was a full three days after that the kid finally allowed Dean to be out of his sight for more than five minutes.

There comes a time in all parents' lives when they find themselves making choices that may be incredibly painful for them personally, but ultimately means that their kids are healthy, happy and safe. Dean was slowly coming to the realization that he was going to need to let Sam go.

Just a _little_.

No matter how much it hurt, because that is what Sam needed to make him happy.

Dean had never thought of himself as Sam's father because, for one, it was _ridiculous_.

And two, to acknowledge all the times when he had been forced to step into the role would be to admit how often their own father wasn't around, and Dean would never think so poorly about Dad.

It didn't mean that Dean didn't feel the gut wrenching pain of forcing himself to let his kid go find his way in the world on his own. When all he wanted to do was keep Sam safe in the seat next to him in the Impala forever.

Dean wasn't Sammy's parent. Not in the traditional sense. But, _yeah,_ he still kinda _was_.

Was it fair to insist on his little brother living a life that scared him? A life he hated? Just so Dean could drive to the next job and be able to see a floppy head of chestnut curls leaning back against the passenger side of Baby?

He took a deep breath. Curled his fingers so tight that the skin stretched and protested the pain as his nails dug into the soft skin of his palms.

"How are you going to have my back from California, Sam?"

 _Which...was actually_ not _the question he had in mind to ask first._

Sam's worried, pinched, elfin face fell as his ears burned red with rising emotion.

"I'm _sorry_ ," he whispered pitifully. "I'm sorry I didn't talk to you before I went out there. I will _always_ be sorry for that."

Sam's face begged for understanding. For _absolution_ , and Dean scrunched his eyes closed, unable to bear witness to the naked pain and regret. It was a few seconds before Sam could even speak again, swallowing hard to keep his composure.

"I'm not going to Stanford," he confessed quietly. "I got accepted, but I haven't heard back about a scholarship. Even if I wanted to go there, I can't afford it without one."

The icy claw that had gripped Dean's heart tight and was threatening to shred it inside his chest eased back a tiny fraction of an inch at the knowledge that his kid was not actually running all the way to the West Coast in his bid for escape. He blinked, breathed deeply to steady his heart rate and rubbed his face.

"Okay. For argument's sake. What exactly _is_ your plan?"

Sam looked up hopefully, and a little spark of excitement tinged his rapidly blinking eyes.

"I wanna stay _here_ ," he said, his voice a little shaky.

" _Here_?" Dean asked, forehead crinkled in confusion. "Like here in Sioux Falls? Or here in this house?"

"Both," Sam continued, gradually becoming even more excited. "The university here. Man, they rolled out the red carpet for me. Wait until I show you the scholarship package. It takes care of _everything_ , including enough of a living expenses stipend that I could swing keeping the house with a little help from federal grants."

Sam was bouncing now, grinning from ear to ear as he quickly snatched up the thick stack of papers from the University of Sioux Falls. He held them out for Dean to take, and the older brother quickly scanned them, not really sure just what he was looking at, but determined to figure it all out before he had to plead Sam's case to their father.

Dean put the papers aside and crossed his arms again, already reluctantly committed to try and make this happen. Truthfully, it wasn't _so_ far away from his own plans going forward. While he would have preferred to have his brother by his side at all times, at least Sam was willing to stay protected in the home they had made here when he wasn't on the job with them.

It was as good a compromise as he could have hoped for at the moment, he supposed.

"Okay. So how exactly would this work?"

Sam was overjoyed that his brother was being so incredibly reasonable, and it showed. The kid was literally bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"I go to classes at the university, and join you guys on hunts whenever I can," he promised. "I'll try to schedule my classes so that I can be available as much as possible. Of course it won't be easy, because I have obligations regarding course load for my scholarship and I'll need to be available to my advisers and any extra activities that I might be required to attend, but I'll only be a phone call away to help with any research you need, I _promise_ , and I know that you'll probably need a bunch, but that's okay too because I'll have access to a bigger library now and..."

"Sam!" Dean yelled sharply.

"Yeah?" Sam asked breathlessly, eyes blinking rapidly.

" _Babbling_ ," Dean stated.

"Sorry," Sam muttered, embarrassed.

The brothers stood in silence for a moment as Sam's excitement dialed down to a more manageable level and Dean mentally made his peace with the whirl of changing circumstances for their little family.

"Okay," he said finally, reaching out to cup Sam around the back of his neck. "When you're ready to talk to Dad, I'll help you make this work. Maybe between the two of us, he won't lose his freakin' mind right away."

Sam exhaled the deep, agonizing breath that had been building up in his chest for months. Petrified that his brother wouldn't understand, and scared to death of trying to do this all on his own. Relieved, he threw his arms around Dean's shoulders and held tight, hands fisting the cotton of his brother's outer shirt, as he buried his face in Dean's shoulder.

" _Thank you_ , big brother."

Not one to normally indulge in too many hugs, Dean returned the affection, finding himself feeling a scary sensation of impending loss that he couldn't explain considering the depths he'd just agreed to keep Sam happy. He stood firm, eyes closed as he tightened his grip around his little brother's thin shoulders.

Wanting nothing more than to just keep his kid close to him forever, and desperately afraid that he was fighting a battle he wasn't sure his heart could afford to lose.

/

Her hair smelled like spring flowers, the long strands tickling his face as he leaned in closer to gently trail tender kisses up her neck. Underneath him, her body responded, back arching slightly as she hummed contentedly and twisted her fingers in the curls on the back of his head. He pushed closer and softly nibbled on her earlobe, and she answered, reaching under his shirt to lightly rake her nails across his bare back.

He folded both arms under her, pulling her closer, and continued his kisses, now finding her waiting plump lips. She allowed the exploration of his curious tongue against her own, shifting to wrap her left leg around the back of his right calf as they pressed harder into the couch cushions.

He drew back momentarily, holding the girl in his arms as if she were made of the most precious, fragile glass, and the warmth and affection in his hazel eyes brought a soft sweet smile to her face. Still clutching his back, she drew him slowly down to her again, offering up the pale milky skin just peeking out of her slightly unbuttoned blouse.

He went willingly, nuzzling the area just under her throat, as she guided his right hand to cup the side of her left breast. He pulled back momentarily, his eyes wordlessly asking her consent to go farther, and she replied by skimming her right hand down the rough jean material over his cute behind.

Permission granted, he leaned back in, easing away her blouse a few inches farther from her breast as he lay more kisses skirting the top of her lacy bra. Deep in a blissful state, they continued their mutual tentative exploration of each other. Not going too far. Clothes pushed aside an inch here and an inch there, but never removed.

Gentle. Tender. Intimate, but respectful.

It could have been ten minutes. It could have been five hours.

Life outside their bubble was suspended as they curved their bodies against each other. They had all the time in the world. All alone in the house, because Sam had an awesome big brother that was giving them privacy and space. A chance to relax and acquaint themselves with each other, without Sam's lanky form crushed into the seat of his Camaro.

She lay underneath him, her ice blue eyes intensely probing every contour of his beautiful face. Enjoying the warmth of his body covering her own, held carefully to keep enough pressure elevated so she wasn't smothered by his heavier weight. She felt his arousal press against her pelvic region, and he blushed, beginning to pull away before she grabbed him more firmly and drew him back in.

Her own body responded, and she shifted to lock her other leg around his, holding him tight between her thighs. Emboldened, his kisses became more intense and their mutual breaths caught faster as hands gripped and explored. Her head rocked back, eyes shut tight as she bit down on her bottom lip when he gently nipped the yielding flesh above her collar bone.

He tenderly extended her arm and nuzzled his nose along the soft white skin of her inner forearm as he planted kiss after gentle kiss along the full length, and she reached out to run her fingers through his chestnut locks, lovingly caressing the side of his face.

For a moment, they stilled their motions and just gazed into the depths of each other's adoring eyes. His breath caught with the sudden surge of affection he held for her. Wanting nothing more than to care for her. Protect her and hold her close. She lay against the throw pillow and smiled at him. Content and relaxed in his embrace.

Slowly, he guided their bodies in a half turn so that she was now laying on him, her slight weight nestled comfortably in his arms, head resting against his chest as she listened to the rapid beat of his heart. One arm held her close, while the other hand slid under her blouse and stroked her back.

Now in control, she took the initiative and leaned back in to repeat his earlier motions. Her kisses were more insistent than his had been. A more fiery passion as she explored his mouth and he moaned, his groin aching and pushing against her with increasing desire.

The couple were oblivious to anything but each other. Not even realizing that a car had pulled into the driveway, and not distracted from one another until the front door unlocked and someone else entered the living room.

The next thing they heard was a man clearing his throat repeatedly, and when the girl finally looked up, her eyes flew wide and her body was paralyzed with fear.

"Oh my God."

The panic in his girlfriend's voice finally shook sense back into Sam, and his first reaction was annoyance, because Dean had promised them a couple more hours of privacy. But the look of horror on Alex's face caused him to frown and quickly shift to look behind him.

Where he saw the unsmiling and scarily quiet face of John Winchester staring down at them.

 _Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit_

Sam drew in a quick shaky breath, but had the foresight to scramble up to a sitting position, shifting Alex behind him protectively.

"Um..hi, Dad."

John scowled, his eyes dark with mounting anger. Looking from his nervous and guilt laden son to the tiny little brunette peeking out from behind him. He glared for another few seconds, letting Sam panic a little more before jerking his head to the right.

"Samuel. Kitchen. Right now, young man."

Sam swallowed hard, shakily getting to his feet as John stood, arms crossed and getting more irate by the second.

"Yes, sir."

He threw one quick glance to Alex and gave her a small smile to reassure her before obeying, his father following close on his heels.

Once in the kitchen, Sam stood at attention as his father strode in behind him. John crossed his arms again and stared his son down. From Sam's tousled hair, wrinkled shirt and desperate need to adjust himself, it was pretty obvious what he had been doing. John took a quick look at his watch and scowled even more.

"Wanna tell me why you're screwing around on the couch with a girl on a school night when you're supposed to be in bed in ten minutes?"

"There's no school tomorrow, sir," Sam answered nervously, swallowing hard again. "Teacher conference day before spring break starts."

Still annoyed but slightly mollified by the answer, John lifted an eyebrow and threw a quick look to the panicking girl on the couch in the next room, trying hard to make herself more presentable.

"Where's your brother? Does he know what's going on here?"

"Yes, sir," Sam answered, trying to slow his rapid heartbeat. "He's working at Uncle Bobby's until I have to drive Alex home."

John took a deep breath and studied his son's earnest face. Remembering what it was like to be seventeen with a pretty girl. When all you cared about was sating your raging teenage hormones, regardless of where you were or who could catch you. John had been there himself a few times before Mary.

At least Sam and his girl were dressed and safe at home. Not like the first time he had caught _Dean_. But then his boys had always been very different when it came to matters of the heart.

On the couch, Alex was stealing surreptitious glances towards the open kitchen.

Sam's posture was as rigid as a solider, but there was terror on his face as he faced his father. She couldn't hear what they were saying, the words too low to make it to the next room. Mr. Winchester looked scary enough to frighten just about anything, but then again she knew the Marines were a special breed, and he clearly held himself as intimidating as any military man.

Maybe even more.

In the kitchen, John gave his wayward son one more hard look. Not quite ready to let him off the hook, but not willing to embarrass him in front of his girl either.

"Okay, Sammy. You're gonna introduce me to your girl. Then you're gonna drive her home. We'll talk about this when you get back."

"Yes, sir," Sam muttered quietly, thoroughly mortified and obediently following John as he strode back into the living room.

Alex stood up when they re-entered the room, comforted when Sam braved his father's displeasure to stand by her side and take her trembling hand into his own.

"Dad, this is my girlfriend, Alexandra Logan," Sam said, trying to steady his voice. "Alex, this is my father, John Winchester."

Surprisingly, John smiled warmly, a hint of his dimples peeking out of his thick beard. Alex noticed, for just a second, exactly how much Sam looked like his dad, and the thought strangely made her feel better.

"It's nice to meet you, young lady. My sons have told me a lot about you," John said.

"It's nice to finally meet you too, sir," Alex replied sweetly, impressing John with her manners. "Sam talks about you a lot. He told me you encourage him to study Latin, which is _so_ great."

John smiled to himself. Not sure if he should take her words as a compliment or censure, With Sam you never knew, although Alexandra seemed genuine in her enthusiasm.

"It's an important skill for some professions," John said cryptically, noticing Sam's eyes flare wide with discomfort.

After a few awkward seconds, John returned his attention to his son.

"There and right back, Samuel," he said firmly before turning back to Alex and giving her a parting nod.

"Yes, sir," Sam replied respectfully, grabbing their coats.

Alex took the hint and allowed him to help her into hers before he donned his own. Grabbing his keys quickly, Sam ushered her out of the house and out to his car. As usual, he held the door open for her until she was seated inside and buckled in because, if nothing else, his dad had taught him good manners around a lady. He trotted around the to driver's side, got in and revved the engine to life.

They drove for just a minute, Sam looking distracted behind the wheel. Alex peered over at him, her pretty face clouded with concern.

"Are you in a lot of trouble?"

Sam gave her a shy half smile and shrugged, keeping one eye on the road as he cruised through the familiar streets. There was no easy way to tell her how unpredictable his father' s moods were.

"Maybe," he confessed. "A little. I don't know. Probably depends on whether or not my brother gets back before I do."

Alex frowned and put a comforting hand on his right arm. She was going to feel just awful if she had caused any problems for her boyfriend at home. Sam slid his arm away from her hand just long enough to grab it with his own and hold it gently.

"Don't worry about it," he soothed. "My dad's always on my case about something. It's no big deal."

When she didn't look convinced, he lifted their joined hands and pressed a soft kiss on her fingers.

"Besides," he continued, "I wouldn't change one minute of the time we spent together tonight."

There was affection and truth in his eyes, and Alex drew herself as close to him as she dared without impeding his ability to drive.

Neither one of them spoke again until Sam pulled into her driveway. He shut the engine and leaned over to give her another long deep kiss that took her breath away and went all the way down to her toes. She sighed in contentment while he dove deeper, holding her as close as possible.

All too soon she felt them pulling apart, and he jumped out of the car and raced around to open her door for her, reaching in to help her out. Hands entwined, he walked Alex to her front door where her parents had left the porch lights on for her return.

Holding both of her hands in his, Sam leaned in to give her one more soft kiss before he had to leave her, reluctant to let her go. With his father home and school out for the next week, depending on John's mood, it might be a while before Sam was allowed to see her again. So he was going to make the most of their last few minutes together while he could.

Alex pushed up on her toes to reach her much taller boyfriend's waiting lips and she moaned deeply as their kiss lingered a little longer than normal than their usual parting. When Sam finally pulled back, there was sadness and worry in his eyes, and she felt a pinch of sorrow.

"I'll call you when I get home, if I can," he promised her. "But I'm not sure how soon I'll be able to see you again."

She nodded, understanding, and reluctantly pulled away.

"Okay."

Sam hesitated on the porch until she was safely inside and then reluctantly returned to his car. He drove home a little slower than he knew he should, because his father was expecting him back quickly, but after such a wonderful night, he wasn't looking forward to getting into with John.

While he had Alex in the house, and was still reeling from his father's unexpected and unwanted appearance, Sam had held his tongue to avoid starting a fight that would only escalate and humiliate him. Dad would not have the least bit of concern over dressing down his son in front of his girlfriend if Sam was belligerent or disrespectful.

It was bad enough that Sam was unfairly forced to cut his evening short. He didn't need to have his girlfriend be uncomfortably exposed to the overbearing and controlling way his father treated him.

He only grew angrier as he drove. They weren't doing anything _wrong_ , and there had been no need for his father to act like they had. When Dean was his age, Dad caught him in the actual act of screwing his girl. All Sam was doing was making out with Alex.

Clothes on and on the couch, not even in the privacy of his bedroom. It was hardly scandalous.

By the time he reached their house, the Impala was in the driveway, and Sam pushed aside a wave of unfair anger towards his brother that he couldn't explain. Dean had given permission after all. Had even made himself scarce so that Sam could have the house. And yet, here Sam was, about to be on the receiving end of another world class _John Winchester Ass Chewing_.

Although, he also grudgingly acknowledged that Dean was more than likely to help Sam talk their father into going easy on his youngest.

The black Chevy's engine was still ticking, which signaled that Dean hadn't been home long, and when Sam looked at his watch, he realized that his brother should still be at Uncle Bobby's for another half an hour, which meant that their father had called him home.

That didn't bode well for Sam.

He entered the house as boldly and unapologetic as he could.

 _Since he had done nothing wrong_.

His father and brother were already deep in tense and animated conversation in the living room, and Sam scowled at them both, blaming each of them for interrupting what had been a perfect evening.

Dean shot him a sympathetic look and Sam sighed heavily, already knowing that Dad was still building up an unnecessary head of steam. Which John himself confirmed when he scowled and lifted a disapproving eyebrow in Sam's direction.

"Go to your room, Samuel. I'll be up to talk to you in a minute."

Whether it was because he was upset that his evening with Alex got cut short, or Sam was just getting bolder about confronting his father, he didn't know. The order pissed him right the fuck off and stupidly possessed him to talk back.

" _No_. Dad, c'mon. You're making a big deal over nothing."

Dean's eyes flared wide, obviously wondering if his little brother had experienced some sort of weirdo, alien abduction head injury on the drive home, because a sane man would not take that tone with John _fucking_ Winchester right now. Dad's face went red, and then magenta, as he turned full fury towards his youngest.

" _Excuse me_?"

"We were only kissing, for fucks sake! You didn't have to embarrass me by making me take her home early."

Sam was now trembling with rage and shooting poisonous glares at both father and brother. Dean shut his eyes and shook his head, knowing the damage was already done by the sharp stiffening of his father's shoulders.

John took a threatening step in Sam's direction and got directly in his face. Even though Sam was now slightly taller than his father, it didn't make John's presence any less intimidating, and Sam felt himself backing up as reason and self preservation slowly began to take hold in his mind.

"You've got exactly five seconds to get your ass to your room before I put you there myself, young man," John hissed menacingly. "Do _not_ test me right now."

Sam threw one more increasingly hostile scowl at his father and then another at his brother for keeping quiet. Unfairly, Sam was annoyed at Dean for not interfering. Always the good soldier. Always toeing the line where their father was concerned. Even when it was Sam that was in the right.

" _Fine_ ," Sam growled, turning for the stairs. He was stopped by his father's firm hand on his arm spinning him back around.

"What'd you say?"

Chest now heaving in anger, Sam gritted his teeth until his father's glare forced his eyes down submissively.

"Yes, sir," he bit out, as respectfully as he could under the circumstances.

John growled but let him go, Sam's insubordinate attitude leaving _a lot_ to be desired, and allowed his youngest to stomp up the stairs in a huff before the kid's mouth got him in any deeper.

Upstairs they could hear Sam's door close hard, but it wasn't technically a slam and John, although thoroughly pissed, had to grudgingly give his kid credit for not being stupid enough to test his father's patience at the moment. He rubbed his face and turned to his firstborn, still hot with anger and more than irritated with both of his children.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking letting him have a girl here alone?"

Dean now stood at attention, but he looked his father directly in the eye as he responded.

"I was thinking that it wasn't a school night, sir," he reported stiffly. "I was thinking better that he's here at home than out somewhere else."

Seeing John's face soften minutely, Dean took that as permission to continue.

"He really likes her, Dad. And she's a good kid," Dean tried to reason. "You know I wouldn't let him have her over if I thought she was going to be trouble for him."

And John _did_ know. Because Dean was all too well aware of what connections meant in their family. Feeling tired, John felt his blood pressuring lowering as he took a seat on the couch.

It's not that the didn't want Sam to have a girlfriend. He would be more than pleased to have both of his children happy and in love, like he had been himself with their mother. But it wasn't the right time for romance. Right now their lives were exposed to way too many risks to take chances.

"You know this can't go far," he said sternly to Dean, expecting his firstborn to understand.

And Dean nodded, because he did understand. Living his own life as he did, he knew what the stakes were regarding bringing a person that Sam really cared for into the mix. While he wanted his little brother to be happy and have some fun, Sam would eventually have to give her up whether he wanted to or not.

Dean got up to grab them both a beer, hoping that a few minutes of peace and quiet and some light alcohol would mellow his father enough that he didn't just outright _kill_ Sam when he went up to confront his younger son.

Thankfully John sat in comfortable silence with his eldest for a bit nursing his drink, while Dean kept his mouth shut and channel surfed, not wanting to risk saying anything that might get his father going again.

Perched on the couch next to his oldest boy, John took deep cleansing breaths. Before he had to go up and talk to Sam, he wanted to be as calm as possible, because when the two of them went at it, it only ended up ripping them both apart. As much as his youngest would disagree, John didn't actually enjoy fighting with his kid all the time.

Especially since Sam was right.

With Dean having given consent, the boy had not done anything wrong until he shot off that smart mouth of his. John was at least man enough, and father enough, to be able to admit to his kid when he had made a mistake.

Up in his room Sam had changed for bed and was now sitting and waiting for his father to come in.

 _He must have been nuts losing his temper like that._

He knew his father was already upset with him, and it was plain suicide to push the man's buttons when he was already in trouble. Even if Sam was in the right, Dad would not overlook a son's insubordination.

Sam knew his father was angry. He just wasn't sure _how angry_.

It had been bad enough that Sam had broken one of the main _R_ _ules_ , even though he had Dean's permission. Because Dad wasn't always necessarily fair about that kind of distinction if he felt his authority was being undermined, especially by his own kids.

Worried about the plans he had already made for spring break with his friends, and seething from the injustice of it all, Sam had given his father more than a bit of permissible attitude downstairs, and he damn well knew it.

It wasn't the first time he had disappointed his father, and Sam knew with surety that it wouldn't be the last. Dad was forever taking fault with every little thing Sam did, no matter how hard Sam worked to please his father.

Maybe not with hunting.

Although Sam _did_ force himself to read as much as could, to be as helpful with the research as he could, because that was one way he could be an asset to the family business that didn't require him to shoot something.

Of course it wasn't easy when your big brother was _practically perfect in every way_ in their father's eyes.

When it came to your enlistment in the Winchester Family Army, it was more than a little demoralizing to be the less-than-stellar little brother of _Dean, Hunter Extraordinaire_ , right hand man and trusted second in command to John.

Sam had learned a long time ago that he would never measure up to his brother in their father's opinion, and he was just about _done_ trying.

More than ever Sam was looking forward to the day when he didn't have to worry about navigating his father's arbitrary temper anymore. Especially as he had a hard enough time keeping his own in check, because Dad had a remarkably special gift for bringing out the temperamental asshole in his younger son.

Alex was a nice girl. A straight A student that came from a good family. Most parents would be thrilled with their son bringing her home. Maybe not for a heavy make-out session on the couch of an otherwise empty house, but still.

Dad shouldn't make a federal case over Sam wanting her.

He truly hated the double standard of his life. Dad had never said one word about all the one night stands that Dean had at seventeen, other than _Keep it wrapped, Son_ , and yet Sam being faithful to one nice girl was enough to start a war.

It wasn't fair. Not even a little bit.

Anger building back up like a roiling flood, Sam kept himself deeply engulfed in his brooding until he was forced to surface back to reality.

All too soon he heard his father's heavy boot steps coming up the stairs, a deep thudding against the aging wood. Echoing ominously through the small house like a foreboding countdown to his impending doom.

He straightened up involuntarily, years of conditioned obedience making his body react to his father's strict discipline. He was a little surprised to hear the knock on his door, having expected Dad to just walk straight in, because a thin wood door wasn't keeping John Winchester away from a disrespectful son.

"Come in," he called quietly.

When his father walked in, Sam noticed that he wasn't already carrying his belt in his hand. So it was more likely that Sam would be put on lock down for his mouth, and/or given even more PT than he already had.

Although, considering that he had hopeful plans for himself and Alex during the holiday, he would rather just take a whipping and get it over with, tired of the constant fighting already.

He cursed his temper again for fucking up his vacation.

Expecting John to immediately start yelling, he steeled himself, determined to keep quiet this time because he didn't need to dig his hole any deeper than it already was. Instead, he was startled when his father came over and sat next to Sam on the bed, leaning his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees.

"Dean confirmed he gave you permission," John started, looking sideways at his son who was staring at the floor. "So, it's not that I'm upset that you had your girl over."

Sam frowned in confusion, finally looking at his father.

"Then why?"

Dad took a deep breath, rubbing his hands together and was quiet for half a minute, gathering his thoughts.

"You can't get too attached to her, Sammy. You know better than that."

And Sam closed his eyes and grimaced, because it was one of the longstanding mantras of their family.

The Winchesters couldn't afford to have any connections...Hunting wasn't just a job, it was _life..._ and the only people they could count on was each other... _Family_.

Blah, blah, fuckity _blah_.

Sam loved his family, but it was a lonely way to go through life, and he simply wasn't prepared to do it anymore.

"I like her, Dad," he said quietly, too tired to make his father see reason at this point.

He fidgeted under his father's intense scrutiny for a minute until John released a deep breath.

"I know you do, kiddo. And no one is telling you that you can't casually date her until school is over. But after that, you're gonna have to let her go. Can you do that?"

His father's calm and rational voice was surprising Sam. As if the man was actually concerned with the answer. Because Dad wasn't one to take his sons' viewpoints into consideration after laying down the law.

"I don't know," Sam answered, surprising himself with his own honesty. "I don't want to."

"But you're going to," John stated firmly. "She's a liability right now, and she could get hurt if something goes after her to get to you."

Sam shook his head, feeling his anger at the injustice of his life rising.

"This isn't fair, Dad," he said bitterly. "I'm not gonna dump a girl I care about just because something _might_ happen. Something can always happen to anyone, at any time. Why can't I just be normal for once?"

"This isn't a debate, Son," John said with finality. "I don't want to make it an order, but I will if I have to. Do I _need_ to make it an order?"

Sam shut his eyes tightly and clenched his teeth together. If his father ordered him to stop seeing Alex, that was it. There wasn't anything he or Dean could do to change John's mind, and Sam wasn't willing to risk it.

He would do as he pleased, when his father wasn't at home, and deal with the fallout at a later date. He needed to save his energy for the conversation they were going to have to have soon regarding Sam's decision to go to college.

"No, sir."

John nodded, relieved that he wouldn't have to take this any further at the moment.

Road weary and worn out from fighting with his kid, he rubbed his palms on his jeans wanting nothing more than to get some rest.

Sam was still so young, and there were times when he just didn't seem to want to understand why John did what he did to keep the boys safe. To be fair, John would have rebelled just as hard when he was Sam's age, if the situation had been the same.

As much as he wished it could be different for his kids, it just wasn't.

Sam didn't look rebellious at the moment. Just young and tired and sad. John was still annoyed by the boy's attitude earlier, and had planned on doling out a little discipline before sending his smart mouthed son to bed but, all things considered, he just couldn't summon up the energy, so he decided to go easy on the kid.

"I didn't like your tone earlier, Samuel," he scolded, getting his point across.

"I'm sorry," Sam muttered, staring down at his hands and waiting for his sentence to be handed down.

"I was wrong earlier," John admitted. "I didn't realize you were on vacation, and I'm sorry."

Sam looked up, eyes agog at his father's statement, and his mouth dropped partway open in shock. He would have thought he had a better chance at winning the lottery than to get his dad to admit he was wrong about _anything_.

"Because of our miscommunication," John started, "I'm gonna let your insubordination slide. _This time_ ," he stressed. "But if I have to speak to you about it again, it's gonna be an entirely different conversation."

"Yes, sir," Sam stuttered, brow still furrowed in confusion at his father's leniency.

John reached out to rub the back of Sam's neck briefly before getting to his feet.

"Get in bed, kiddo. Lights out in five."

"Yes, sir."

Sam stood up and pulled his blankets back as John walked to the door.

"Good night, Sammy."

Sam managed a small smile, grateful for the reprieve. "Night, Dad."

After Dad left, Sam quickly said his prayers and then turned off the light. Once Sam was in bed, he grabbed his phone and flipped it open to text Alex.

 _All O K. Miss U._

He waited a few seconds and then the phone vibrated with the incoming message.

 _:) Wz worried. Miss U 2._

Sam would have liked to talk more, but he needed to keep his texts down to a manageable number. Dean had already cautioned him that their father would be less than pleased if Sam didn't have any texts left for the month and they needed to contact him.

A mild understatement.

Sighing, he shifted around in his bed to get comfortable. As much as he hated to admit that his father was right about anything, he knew his growing affection for Alex was becoming a problem.

Not for the reasons that John had concerns over, but because in just a few months, she would be leaving to go to school at NYU. No matter which college Sam wound up at, they were going to be living very far apart in the very near future.

The idea of a long distance relationship didn't really appeal to him, because he knew that they were very hard to keep going strong. That and the fact that they were both still so young, and as much as he felt for her right now, he couldn't say with any honesty if she was _the one_.

Sam himself was going to college to _study,_ and the social life aspect of it wasn't necessarily high on his list of priorities, but he also couldn't rightly say if he wouldn't eventually start to feel left out of activities because his girlfriend was thousands of miles away.

It was a disturbing thought. Best left for another night, when he didn't have the warm and fuzzy lingering memories of Alex's soft lips on his own and the warmth of her beautiful body pressed against him.

/

John spent most of the night tossing and turning in his bed in the basement bedroom. Dean had added a foam layer to the mattress at some point, and John had to smile at his son's thoughtfulness. He really was truly blessed with his firstborn.

Dean was his anchor. His rock.

He knew it was unfair to place another heavy duty burden on his son's already full shoulders. Dean already bore the brunt of caring for his brother, and on better days John felt enormous guilt well up when he let himself think about how much he relied on Dean to care for _him_ as well.

A coward, John had not yet spoken to his eldest regarding his fears and concerns for Sammy.

Probably because it wouldn't be something that Dean would understand as clearly as he needed to.

Always a protective older brother, John suspected that Dean would dismiss the idea out of hand, and as tempting as that was for John to do as well, they couldn't afford to be in denial when it came to something this important.

John would find a way to save his little boy, even if the price was the cost of his own life.

He didn't know if Sammy was destined to evolve into something that John would feel compelled to hunt. All he knew was that he would do whatever it took to make sure that it never happened. John might need his firstborn in the fight, if for no other reason than to carry on if his father failed in his attempts.

Sammy had to be protected and saved. _Nothing_ else mattered.

It wasn't his boy's fault.

Sam was an innocent pawn in a biblical game of high stakes, and John didn't appreciate his child being moved about the supernatural chessboard without his consent. If that meant he had to hold on to his boy a little tighter, hide him a little deeper, then that is what he was going to do.

Sammy wasn't even mature enough yet to understand how their lifestyle positively _demanded_ a separation from the normal world.

Some day, he would.

John would make sure that he got there eventually. But until that time, it was his responsibility as the boy's father to make the hard decisions and force compliance. Fighting with his son was the absolute last thing that he wanted to do.

But John would risk his kid hating his guts if it kept him safe.

Belatedly he realized that he should be a decent enough father to know when his son's school vacations were. It had come as a complete surprise to find out that Sam was home all next week. John had been simply planning on checking in with his boys for a night and then heading out on the trip he had already scheduled.

A week with no classes was a long time for a young boy feeling the flush of a first love, _and John suspected it_ was _a first love_ , to spend with a young lady.

While he could force Sammy to spend the week training and doing abstract research for hunts that John wasn't even taking at the moment, he began to formulate a better plan.

His contact was in DC.

An annoying fact that rankled John because he despised big cities, only taking hunts in the more metropolitan areas when it couldn't be helped. Sam had long wanted to visit the Smithsonian, because John's smart boy could happily lose himself in a museum for hours without coming up for air.

Sammy's birthday was also coming up in a couple of weeks, and John wasn't sure if he would be in a position to be with his son when he finally turned eighteen. Not that he didn't want to. His sons' entire lives were spattered with long periods of absences and broken promises. Time lost that John would never be able to make up for.

And it _hurt_.

More than his kids could possibly ever understand.

Or maybe they could, because John had left them alone on many special days, and the pain of a neglected child had to be a hundred fold greater than that of a regretful father. The guilt clawed at John like a merciless specter, leaving him raw and bleeding inside for all of the ways he had failed his children.

Maybe he could kill a few birds with one stone right now.

 _Time and distance_.

Tomorrow he could bundle his kids in the Impala like the old days. Just the three of them heading out together as a family.

Dean would love it.

John knew his firstborn was itching to tear up the open road. And he would do anything to make his little brother happy, even it if meant hours traipsing through museum exhibits.

Sammy would be beside himself to spend a few days playing tourist in Washington, and John had to admit that he needed to see his kids smile right now.

The last few months had been the hardest in his life apart from the time right after Mary's death. Too many harsh realities coming at him too fast to allow him to catch his breath. He was getting closer every day to ending it, once and for all, but even that was coming with a price.

By gaining ground in his hunt, he had learned terrible truths about his child. Truths that were ripping apart his very soul with grief.

John needed what was waiting for him in DC. It was a huge piece of the puzzle to finally gaining back some semblance of control over his life and that of his sons. But that didn't mean that he couldn't also do some immediate good for his boys along the way.

/

To say that their road trip got off to a bumpy start was an understatement.

Returning from their early morning run, John had informed his boys to be dressed and packed to leave in thirty.

Of course, Sam had immediately balked, and John could see the fire in his son's eyes, his temper already flaring with the unfairness of being dragged away during his vacation. As usual, Dean had stepped in the middle, immediately ready to follow his father anywhere, and moderating Sam's objections without any idea of where they were going or what they were expected to do.

Constant. Steady. Loyal. Obedient.

It would have made John proud if it didn't make him so much more sad.

John's own temper was starting to rise against his will. Quickly ravaging through the steely set determination he had woken up with to spend the next week enjoying his kids without constantly fighting with his younger boy.

It was taken every ounce of strength he had in him to keep his cool through Sam's insolent morning tantrums.

John had never been one to take dissension from his kids, especially when he was attempting to do something fun. Yet, somehow he managed to maintain his calm in the face of Sam's increasing insubordination, long enough to tell his boys that they were just taking a road trip.

No hunting job at the end of the journey.

Simply a _normal_ family excursion.

Honestly, he couldn't blame them for their twin wary looks of incredulity and disbelief. Why shouldn't they doubt his innocent and well meaning intentions? He'd dragged his boys around the country their entire lives, and there was always a job related reason.

 _Always._

John tried not to laugh or be insulted in equal measures when Sam muttered _Christo_ under his breath, hazel eyes wide and disbelieving.

The weary father's heart both swelled with love and broke in a thousand shattered pieces at the same time, for the cold cup of coffee to the face reminder of how his children had been forced to live. So perpetually abandoned and on edge that they couldn't even believe that their own dad would want to spend some quality time with them.

John had remained stoically silent during his youngest son's tirade. Ruthlessly pelted with sharp accusations of being absent and single minded, regardless of what his kids wanted, swirling through the air like poisonous vapor clouds. Leaving John wondering for the millionth time just how had he managed to let himself become this man that his little boy despised so much.

Eventually, he had barked out an order to them to get them moving. Already disgusted with himself for the years of relentless duty and disappointment that had conditioned his kids to only unfailingly respond to intimidation and threats.

And move they did, knowing full well that Dad's temper was momentarily in check, but could very well spill over at any second. Dean had physically dragged his little brother up the stairs, muttering harsh warnings about obvious death wishes, while Sammy bucked and kicked like a mule in his very aggressive dissent.

Dean at least started to believe their impending departure was on the level when John held out his hand for the Impala's keys. _The truck was staying put_ , he told his boys. _There was no need for the additional arsenal on a damn family road trip_. Still unconvinced, Sam had petulantly flung his bag in the back seat, griping about being hauled away like luggage from his girlfriend and friends. Daring to remind his father that the agreement was hunting on weekends _only_.

John counted to ten in his head.

 _Twice._

Not at all wanting to start the trip off on a bad note, with resentment and hard feelings cascading like an acid rain tidal wave from the back seat for the next twelve hundred miles. Two direct orders to Sammy to get in the car were ignored while John and Dean packed their own things in the trunk.

His youngest continued to harp on his desire to be left home alone if his father and brother were needed on a job, and John's irritation grew, wondering just when his son had started to think that his father's orders were negotiable.

In the end, despite his hard fought intentions to maintain his temper, John had seriously had _enough_.

Finally just grabbing Sam and bodily pushing him towards the rear door. With a hard smack to the ass to suitably motivate him, along with a reminder of last night's discussion on respect and the threat of a quick trip back inside with John's belt if necessary.

Although John would really prefer that he _not_ have to start off their vacation by whipping his bratty kid, no matter how much he was practically begging for it.

Sam could have melted his father with the laser hot hatred in his eyes. Face flushed with anger and potentially mortifying embarrassment over the possibility of a neighbor's prying eyes catching him being physically reprimanded out in the open like a naughty two year old.

Thrumming with hostility, the boy curled up in the back and spent half the state of Iowa staring out the rear window, petulantly ignoring every attempt by his father and brother to engage him in conversation.

Although Sam sat rigid and silent, John could tell that his boy was merely sitting in wait. Ready to pounce on his father the moment the discussion turned to anything even remotely supernatural. Willing and able to verbally flay John alive for having the offensive temerity to get the brothers into the car under false pretenses.

Not that the kid's skepticism was unwarranted, but John was determined to prove his son wrong.

He and Dean talked music and cars in the front. Words flowing carefree and easy between the two oldest Winchesters like always. They drove steadily, but nowhere near their normal life-or-death speed.

There was no real hurry.

John avoided the highway, preferring the lazily winding two lane blacktop of back roads. It was a beautiful spring day, and the windows were cranked open enough to allow a warm breeze to blow through the Impala's interior, playfully swirling the curls of the boy in the back seat.

Sam had nodded off somewhere around Cedar Rapids, pent up tension and teenage rage wearing him out after a night of too little rest and too much early morning sparring with his father. The boy had never been able to resist the rocking comfort of the old girl, lulling him to sleep like she had since he was just a tiny thing.

John sneaked the occasional glimpse of his slumbering child in the rear view mirror. In sleep, Sammy lost the pinched and hostile aggressive lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth, leaving only the sweet and innocent cherubic face of John's little boy.

The one that made John thoroughly and completely unwilling to believe that his son would ever be anything but good and decent and honorable.

Dean caught John's eye, knowing exactly what his father was seeing and he smiled, because no one knew Sammy like his big brother, and Dean had been on the receiving end of a hundred heated fights with his headstrong little brother.

There was a roadside farm stand just outside of Galesburg and, on long forgotten impulse, John pulled the car off and stopped. In the back seat, Sammy woke with a start, blinking away the lingering vestiges of sleep and silently questioning where they were. John got out of the car and stretched, the muscles in his back popping with the unpleasant reminder of his middle age.

He clapped his hands sharply to wake the boys up a little more and jerked his head towards the stand, indicating to his sons to join him, and they slowly complied.

He headed over, confused kids grudgingly following him, and John felt a sharp pang of sadness that his sons didn't remember all the times when he had done this when they were much smaller. A time when he was still a good father that was concerned that his boys were eating fresh fruit and vegetables occasionally, instead of their usual rote of junk and convenient drive thrus.

When money had been tight, the sporadic farm stands had provided an economic nutritional lifeline to a financially struggling dad trying to stave off scurvy in his rapidly growing children. The boys would sit in the back of the Impala, cardboard containers of berries and grapes on their laps, plopping them into their tiny rosebud mouths, smiling and dripping with juice.

Their father must have mopped up a thousand sticky messes from the black leather seats, but he had never really minded.

John didn't know exactly when he had stopped bothering with the simple things in life like roadside farm stands.

Or when he had stopped being truly adamant about the unhealthy amount of processed foods, fat and sugar that his boys ingested regularly. Coming home from a hunt and finding the trash baskets in the motel rooms overflowing with pizza boxes and empty chip bags and candy wrappers.

Sure, on the occasions that he was with them, he tried to press healthier eating on them, but still. At some point, he had just started to let such concerns go by the wayside as his little boys grew into young men.

Maybe it was when he has stopped caring about such things for himself. When his entire world vision had narrowed so drastically that all his mind had the capacity to process was revenge and the immediate physical safety of his kids.

Forget demons, ghouls, spirits and werewolves. Because of his lax parenting skills, Dean could be dead by thirty from heart disease or a stroke, with no lurking evil required to lend a helping hand to the demise of John's firstborn.

Sammy's face morphed from annoyed to confused, and then slowly to a tentative inquisitiveness as they shopped. By the time they returned to the car, they were laden down with bags and baskets of apples, bananas, apricots and strawberries. As John pulled back out into the road, his sons were contentedly snacking, quiet and peaceful in their seats while the mild breeze blew and the late morning sun warmed their handsome faces.

Looking in the rear view, John saw his youngest, now slowly nibbling on an especially large strawberry, and when Sam caught his father's eye in the mirror, his gave his dad the sweet shy smile of childhood. All traces of stubborn, angry teenager erased by a mouthful of fresh berries.

It made John incredibly sad and guilty that he had somehow forgotten just how simple it was to make his little boy happy. Because Sammy had always been an easy going, cuddly child when he was little.

Years of arguments and tension, and fits of anger and hostility on both sides, had horrifically discolored their relationship to the point where John sometimes dreaded seeing his youngest. For the poor reason that he didn't always have the emotional stamina to engage in an all out war with his own kid after what he had seen on the hunt.

It wasn't fair to either Sammy or John for him to feel that way. Wasn't fair to Dean either, since he would inevitably get caught in the crossfire.

On a good day, John could push past the pain and attempt to be something resembling a good dad.

He was confident that his boys always knew that they were loved, even when he wasn't around to show them.

Even when he _was_ around, and was too emotionally wrecked to show them.

But there had come a time when the hunt overtook him almost completely, and small dreams and happiness for his kids became a far distant priority to their general well being and his own relentless need for justice for his Mary's murder.

Would Sam be tempted down a dark path, simply because his own damn father had stopped caring exactly just how much real happiness the boy had in life?

Looking from one son's beautiful face to the other, as John drove the family car towards the first real vacation they, well... _ever_...had, he was determined to make it up to them.

With three drivers in the car, especially three Winchesters, who lived on the open road and could do a long haul as easily as breathe, they didn't need to actually stop for the night. Between John and his boys, they could have powered through the twenty hour drive, swapping out places and sleeping in shifts until they reached DC.

But this wasn't a job, it was a _vacation_.

And John didn't feel the need to give his youngest any more ammunition for his significant arsenal of judgment and condemnation.

Besides, he was the dad in this equation, and he felt a strange desire to do all of the driving like he had when his kids were young. Dean didn't seem to mind, surprisingly enough. Maybe having seen something in his father's eyes that made the bright and observant young man understand his dad's quirky motivation.

Instead, they pulled over for the night just outside of Indianapolis, finding a nicer budget motel than they would have normally chosen. They weren't hunting, and they could feel reasonably comfortable that nothing, other than a love sick barmaid wishing to spend some quality time with John's firstborn, would trail them back to their room.

Clean linens that smelled fresh instead of stale. Pillows that didn't reek of cigarette smoke. Two full sized beds for his growing boys and a fairly decent cot for John who wasn't as precious about his own personal comfort when his kids needed a good night's sleep. No mystery stains on the carpet. No mold in the shower.

It was almost _nice._

John had some cash put aside and two new cards. Dean brought his own fairly steady finances to the table. Between the two of them, they had more than enough to let their youngest run wild among the tourist traps of DC without worrying over how to budget.

Now that Sam was more convinced that this truly _was_ a trip of pleasure and not of death and violence, he didn't even protest the steakhouse that his father and brother chose for dinner. The boy ate grilled chicken and salad and _smiled_ while his other family members made edible love to their dinner plates of rare steaks and potatoes dripping in butter.

That was when John remembered about his earlier vow to get Dean to eat better, but his firstborn looked so happy that the indulgent dad let it go.

Afterwards, they found a bar, and while normally Sam would either be left at the motel or in the car, he joined John and Dean inside under the promise that his father would allow him to use his fake ID and indulge in a beer or two.

It was Friday night, and there was lively action in the smoky crowd.

Too lively for either elder Winchester to pass up, and John and Dean took turns sitting with Sam, who was getting increasingly buzzed on his third beer which John had grudgingly allowed. Sam hadn't really had anything to drink since that craptastic party when Jack invaded his veins, and he wasn't necessarily experienced at holding his booze, as much as he seemed to think so.

While Dean hustled pool, John sat with his younger son, and the boy's beer loosened lips had Sam decidedly chatty, rambling on and on about classes and his friends with a relaxed attitude that his father rarely got to see.

By the time it was John's turn to school some locals on the finer points of poker, Dean, having won _big_ , got Sam his fourth _and_ fifth beer, laughing at his little brother's slurred speech and increasingly pink cheeks.

John got them back to the motel late that night, both of his boys too drunk to drive, and Dean even waving off two blondes, a brunette and a very obviously bottle red head. Sammy was stumbling and giggly, an adorable happy little drunk when it wasn't the hard stuff, and John was struggling to keep a straight face as he wrestled a whining and protesting Sammy out of his outer shirt and jeans and into his bed.

The drive through to DC the next day was much more relaxed than the previous day. Without Sam sulking in the back, the boys bickered over the radio, played car games like when they were kids, and John made sure that his oldest ate just as many grapes as he did pieces of the salt water taffy they picked up at a rest stop.

All in all, they spent five full happy days in DC.

Sam ran them ragged from one museum to the other. John and Dean trailing behind like obedient puppies while their youngest never stopped once to draw breath as he gave them detailed guided tours to every exhibit.

Besides most of the different buildings of the Smithsonian, _and who knew there were that many museums that made up the entire complex_ , they toured The National Archives, Library of Congress, The National Portrait Gallery and the Capitol. John let Sam book a tour at the Supreme Court and his little boy just about _lost his mind_ with excitement.

An indulgent brother, Dean finally drew the line at the National Postal Museum, because _seriously, what the fuck was that about_ , but his green eyes went wide with excitement when John led his boys to the International Spy Museum.

They walked the Tidal Basin, a shower of Cherry Blossom petals swirling in the air on a perfect spring day. A relaxing easy stroll along the Mall, where Lincoln sat in welcome to them.

John spent the entire trip just _watching_ his boys.

Sammy's extensive knowledge of everything they had seen simply floored the proud father, and the way Dean busted his ass to let his little brother run the show humbled John in a million different ways.

Happy, carefree and acting years younger without the enormous weights on their shoulders that he himself had placed throughout their lives. They laughed and bickered. Playfully shoving each other and racing from one place like high spirited young colts.

In truth, the only down spot to the entire trip came from John's own foolish compulsion that had him seeking out the names of his fallen brothers at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Painfully remembering the kind and decent young men that had not had the fortune to come home, and the survivor's guilt brought John to his knees, grief overwhelming him, until finally it was his own kids that grounded him back to reality.

Wordlessly offering comfort as they bookended him for the walk back to their hotel. Warm, strong and sturdy young men allowing him to borrow their strength, shoulder to shoulder. Both of an age to those on the wall, and John's heart thudded in terror when his depressed mind strayed to the dark and petrifying thoughts of losing his children.

The boys don't speak about his weakness in the face of such loss, even though he has chastised them over and over again for allowing their emotions to dictate their actions.

He just held tightly to his kids, flooded with gratitude that he had been allowed to make it back home in one piece, when so many of his friends had not. Allowed to make it back home safe and sound, and able to go on to father these two extraordinary boys who filled him with so much pride and joy.

John took his sons to eat blue crabs, expertly showing them how to break the shells without getting pieces flying in their eyes. They hit a half dozen different ethnic restaurants that made Sammy's eyes pop because he loved trying new things. But Dean wasn't forgotten either, and when John led them to the Hard Rock Cafe, his firstborn thought he had found heaven between all the memorabilia and the thick cheeseburgers.

On their last night in town, he declared an early rack time for them all, surprised when not even Sam protested. John's youngest had been riding high on Cloud Nine for days and the boy was easy going and compliant, even though his father was sure that the kid would have liked one more night on the town.

John grabbed the car keys to go out, and promised them a real treat for dinner. Dean talked his little brother into spending time watching the non-porn _good_ Pay Per View, because their adjoining rooms were in an even more upscale hotel than the place in Indiana had been. Sam pounced on the chance to see _The Tailor of Panama_ , and John left quickly, comforted in the knowledge that his kids would be occupied until his return.

/

His directions were very good, and his own sense of direction even better than the written words on the paper he had kept hidden in his wallet for the past week and a half. It only took a little over twenty minutes before the Impala rolled into a combined residential and bustling commercial neighborhood in the northeast section.

John parked the car, praying that nothing happened to her while he was inside the deceptively normal looking house, because Dean would _lose his mind_ if his father brought her back with even the tiniest of scratches. Quite the role reversal from a time when his son would be the one under the gun for damage to her.

He had the appropriate words to identify himself as a player in the big leagues of the occult world, and the wizened old woman who stood guard at the door allowed him inside with the barest of disapproving sniffs.

While the house seemed like a regular single family home to the casual observer, John was shown down a hall and through a hidden door leading to the basement where Papa Jacques plied his trade only to those with a firm grasp on the power of real hoodoo.

The room itself was brimming with the usual mystical and slightly revolting trappings of the base of operations for a real deal Voodoo witch doctor. The only light was provided by a handful of flickering candles, but John wasn't intimidated or dissuaded into backing off. He could barely see a few feet in front of him where an enormous man in a simple white shift and black pants was kneeling on the ground and murmuring quietly.

Senses on high alert as he surveyed his surroundings, he was _almost_ startled when the man spoke.

"John Winchester," Papa Jacques intoned deeply, not turning around. "Your name is known. A man with many enemies on the other side."

John smiled scarily and scoffed.

"I have that effect on people."

There was a tense moment of quiet between them before the man spoke again.

"One could find themselves courting displeasure for doing business with a man such as you."

John laughed coldly, pushing back the urge to shoot the guy on principle alone.

"I'm sure you can handle yourself. Especially once you have what I brought."

A hearty laugh now rang out from the kneeling man, and he finally got to his feet and turned around. The complete absence of his eyes shook John for the briefest of seconds before he managed to regain his composure.

With surprising agility, Papa Jacques strode over to exactly where John was standing, and he expectantly held out a thick meaty hand.

"If you don't mind," he said cordially.

"You first," John said confidently, standing his ground, not giving a fraction of an inch.

Papa Jacques regarding John for the briefest of seconds, as well as a seemingly blind person could anyway, before he smiled a broad, chilling smile. He reached somewhere behind him, although there was nothing there but empty air, and when his hand came forward, he held a roll of what John suspected was words written on human skin.

"Ready to face the Devil, John Winchester?"

John sneered, pulling a necklace out of his own pocket and thinking only of his son.

" _Always_."

For a few tense moments, there was an exchange of disconcerting information. A dance of power between two men deep in The Life. The obligatory warnings of consequences.

An argument. A rebuff. A resignation.

In the end, John left with what he came for. One very rare talisman poorer, that he had spent the previous six months trading up the occult ladder to acquire. One summoning ritual closer to the last stage of the quest he had steered the past seventeen and a half years of his life towards.

As well as a growing fear deep in the pit of his stomach over the knowledge that more and more in the dark belly of the magical underworld were beginning to take notice of the maelstrom of impeding evil that John's child was smack in the middle of.

/

The boys were more than halfway through the movie by the time he made it back to the hotel. They paused it long enough to dive into the take out bags of food he picked up at the tiny local Haitian restaurant a block away from Papa Jacques' place. Thrilled beyond measure that the sheer intimidation factor of the Impala had apparently warded off any would-be vandals.

They grabbed containers of fried goat and red snapper. Rice, black beans and pickled slaw and rum cake. Deciding to eat on their beds as the movie played, because even though it was early, they were all a little tired. Dean sniffed derisively at the goat. Taking a tentative bite and then pouncing on the rest like he hadn't eaten a full meal in weeks.

Needing to be close to his youngest after the disturbing and tense negotiations with Papa Jacques, John climbed on the bed next to Sam, happy when his normally standoffish boy didn't protest, and father and son ate their spicy meals together, sitting with their backs pressed against the headboard, and a companionable comfort between them.

John consented to the additional purchase of _3000 Miles to Graceland_ , because he was a sucker for anything Elvis Presley. Before the movie was even a third of the way through, Sammy had fallen asleep, his mop of chestnut curls flopping on his father's shoulder.

Like he did when he was just a tiny cuddly little thing, and no place was more safe and secure than his dad.

John was exhausted, but it would have taken an act of God to make him move when his little boy was comfortably warm and slumbering against him.

Dean smiled at them both. Clearly content with the tension free days they had passed together. Enjoying his family and genuinely _happy_. He darted into John's room and grabbed all the extra pillows from the bed, carefully helping his father prop them behind his back to keep it from protesting and seizing up later. John laid one against his chest and painstakingly shifted Sammy so that he was laying on it in a much better position.

In his sleep, Sam sighed contentedly, and John carded his fingers through his son's wild tumble of curls, trying to keep his hands from shaking. If Dean noticed his father's unease, he kept quiet about it, and the two of them pretended to watch the rest of the movie.

/

After the long trip back, John let his kids sleep in the next morning. Running on his own to quiet the demons in his mind screaming at him relentlessly. He was surprised to find them both in the kitchen on his return. They were smiling, but looked decidedly nervous, and John threw them both a questioning look while they fidgeted at the table.

Without too much of a preamble, Sammy slowly slid a thick pile of paper in John's direction, and the floor fell completely out from under him.

/

Between the two brothers, they carefully outlined the entire plan before their uncharacteristically quiet father.

Pointing out the pros of having Sam kept safe in a well warded home. Conveniently available for all of their researching needs, and the added bonus of regular additions as a second back up for the more dangerous hunts. Reminding Dad that Sammy had a car of his own and could meet them easily without one of them needing to fetch him back and forth. Another vehicle to run errands and carry more of an arsenal.

Sam was enthusiastic and _respectful_.

He took tremendous pains to decree his ready willingness to continue to defer to John's rules and authority over every aspect of his life going forward. He pleaded a soulful and genuine case for his father to see how much his younger son needed this chance to go out on his own and spread his wings a little. Sam also was quick to point out how his emerging financial independence would ease the monetary burden on the family and, in fact, make it easier on all of them.

Sam begged his father to see the breadth of his accomplishments, earnestly detailing how hard he had worked over the years to position himself as someone worthy for the world of academia to give him a resounding welcome with scholarships and stipends and accolades. He could have sworn, just for a moment, that a flash of pride flickered in John's eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it had come.

For Dean's part, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

Reasonable and eloquent as always, as he made a case that Sam would be more of an asset in Sioux Falls than he might be on the job. Pointing out that they rarely took a case that required all three of them together. That John had successfully hunted on his own _for years_ , and now that Sam was old enough to live more or less on his own, Dean could finally hunt at his father's side full time, with Sam joining them on the harder jobs as needed.

They would only be a phone call away from each other, Dean stated rationally.

With Sam's financial aid covering the cost of the house, they would still have a home base, saving on money for excess motel rooms and laundry. Bobby was literally minutes down the street from the youngest Winchester. Ready, willing and able to step in if the kid needed immediate assistance until his father and brother could get to him.

It all sounded perfectly agreeable, even to Dean's less than enthusiastic mental comfort. John had been silent throughout the entire presentation, and his lack of reaction might have easily been mistaken for positive contemplation and grudging acceptance. Holding the sheets of the acceptance letters in his hand, he looked slowly from one son to the other.

The boys were pressed against each others' arms, steadfast and straight, side by side, as they leaned against the kitchen counter. Dean's face was placid, military smooth and obedient, although there was a hint of pleading in the dark green pools of his eyes. By his side, John could almost see the vibration of happy excitement thrumming in his youngest, Sammy seconds away from bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Strangely, John's first thought was wondering if it was possible to be so incredibly angry that he couldn't even yell at his kids. That an all consuming, all engulfing rage was so powerful that it looped back around to calm and silence. Because that is _exactly_ what he was feeling at the moment.

As casually as if he were making a sandwich, John stood up with the paperwork in his hand and walked over to the drawer next to the sink. He grabbed a small container of lighter fluid that he knew Dean kept in there and put the papers directly into the sink and then sprayed a liberal amount of the fluid over them, soaking them thoroughly.

"Dad?" Sam called out, panicked and confused as he ran over to his father. "What are you doing? Dad! Stop! _Please_. **Don't** "

Dean added his own protests, even as their father's face turned cold with fury.

"This is all _your_ fault," he growled at Dean, pointing an accusing finger in his firstborn's direction. "I listened to _you_ , when you assured me that he just needed some time away to get his head on straight. I trusted _you_! And look where that got us!"

John turned back to his youngest while he pulled a book of matches from his pocket. Glaring dangerously, he shoved them in Sam's direction.

" _You_ are going to _burn_ these, and that's going to be an _end_ to this discussion. Do you understand, Samuel?"

Sam backed away from his father, shaking his head pitifully and swallowing hard as his chest heaved. Dean pushed himself away from the counter and inserted himself between his father and brother, holding up a placating hand.

"Dad. _Please._ Don't do this. Please try to understand how important this is to him," he begged. "We can make it work, Dad. _I swear_. It'll all be okay. I promise he'll be safe here, no matter what I have to do. _Please_."

For only the second time in Dean's life, John grabbed him in anger by the front of his shirt, roughly yanking his firstborn out of the way and pushing him off to the side. Fury pulsing through his veins, he wrapped a tight fist around Sam's wrist, choosing to ignore the small cry of pain that came from his son, and yanked Sam back to the sink. Holding his youngest in a firm grip, he forcefully slapped the matches in Sam's left hand.

"Get this through your head, Samuel. You...Are... _Not_...Going!" John barked, releasing Sam's wrist just long enough to grab his son by the back of the shirt and push him even closer to the sink.

"Burn them. Right _the fuck_ now. That's an order."

Against his will, tears were starting to fall down Sam's cheeks as he stood shaking at the sink. His dad's grip on his shirt was pressing Sam right up against the sink's rim, and Sam knew that his father's strength was superior to his own, so he didn't even try to push back.

"Dad, please don't make me do this. _Please_. I'm begging you."

Dean warily approached his father and tentatively reached out to physically pull John back an inch or two. While Dad might think he was only restraining Sam, Dean could see that the insistent hold was actually paining his little brother.

"Dad," he tried quietly. "C'mon. Let's just all calm down a little."

John shook Dean's hands off of him and sharply pushed Dean aside a second time, stunning his son with the ferociousness of the shove.

"Stand...the fuck...down, Dean," John hissed, eyes snapping dangerously. "You've done enough here, already. _I_ am Sam's father, and he will do as _I_ say. Period."

Turning back to Sam, John gave him another insistent push.

"You've got two second to light those matches, or this is getting a whole lot messier," he warned, hissing into Sam's ear.

Sam was shaking uncontrollably by the point. A combination of anger, sadness and fear shooting like sparks through his entire body. Bereft by the loss of the warm relationship he had experienced with his dad during the trip, and the cold rejection of the compromises that he had so carefully crafted.

Completely and utterly wrecked by his father's callous disregard for his desires and accomplishments, and seething with rage over the way his brother had been cruelly chastised and discarded.

Every fiber in him wanted to get right up in his father's face, tell the man off and possibly throw a punch, but then he heard a quiet voice from behind them. Desperate and soothing enough to compel him to comply.

"Sammy. Do it, kiddo," Dean whispered shakily. "They're just papers."

Sam shook with an engulfing flood of emotions boiling through him, as he struggled to reign in his darker reactions before his relationship with his father was completely obliterated.

Dean was right.

Dad could force him to burn the evidence of Sam's triumphs and approvals, but he couldn't erase them from existence. No John Winchester salt and burn would exorcise the fact that Sam went after what he wanted and got it.

With a trembling hand, Sam forced himself to set the whole book alight, hesitating for the briefest of seconds before he tossed it on the well soaked pages, and then leaning back slightly against his father's grip as flames licked up towards him.

He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. Making his peace that the tentative truce he convinced himself had been forged between himself and his father was merely a product of a hopeful imagination of a son who only wanted his father's approval and pride.

Only to find out that he would never actually receive either.

Behind him, he could feel his dad slightly relaxing his grip as the tension level in the room collectively lowered. But it was only the calm in the center of a storm.

Able to move a little more freely, Sam slowly turned around and shot daggers at his father's face.

"It didn't have to be this way, Dad," he said sadly, shaking his head and forcing himself to speak more bravely than he felt. "I would have held up my end of the bargain."

Hot fiery ire began to burn it's way back up Sam's throat and a red haze descended over his vision as his entire body trembled.

"Just _once_ , you could have given more of a shit about the happiness of your _living_ son," he seethed, hostility at the boiling point, "Just for _once_ , over the revenge for your _dead_ wife."

Like a cobra strike, John drew his arm back and delivered an almighty smack to his son's left cheek. The force rocked Sam back, and he heard Dean's sharp intake of breath behind him. Whether it was over the slap or Sam's disrespectful invocation of their mother's memory, he didn't know.

"That is _your mother_ , you're talking about, Samuel," John hissed angrily.

Sam didn't palm his stinging cheek, shock making his eyes blink and tear up, unwilling to give his father the satisfaction of knowing how much it had _hurt_. Not physically, because Sam was used to more pain from training, but _emotionally_ , because Dad had never, _ever_ struck either of his sons like that before.

Across from him, John took in a sharp breath, barely able to comprehend the fact that he had just slapped his kid in the face.

He couldn't deny it.

The entire left side of Sam's face was flushed pink with John's hand print and his son's little hazel doe eyes were flooded with tears and hurt. A wave of bile crested John's throat for a few brief seconds before he reached out for his boy, only to have Sam shrink back away.

The rebuff stung, but John knew he deserved it.

Things were spinning wildly off the rails in his world. If there was one thing John hated, it was feeling totally out of control when it came to his kids.

The boys had no true idea of the depths that he had gone to in his bid to keep them safely hidden from the evil that had plagued their lives. Yes, he made them hunt, in an effort to toughen them up and make them strong, but he had always shielded them from the boss fights.

Always.

This past year, while obviously beneficial to his kids' mental well being, had been hell on earth for a desperately worried father that fretted over the greater than usual vulnerability.

John had practically run himself ragged darting from job to home to job to home, always striving for _more_ information. _More_ of an edge. _More_ tools on his belt for the prize fight. _More_ experience. Building _more_ of a fearsome reputation, so that the dark underworld would think twice about going after his boys.

Always _more_.

And _more and more and more_ until this nightmare was _over_.

Sammy simply couldn't be left behind on his own.

Too many outside factors to worry about. Too much potentially dangerous influence that could come from any banal interaction. John needed to keep his kid _close_. Needed to keep a sharp eye on his son so that nothing sneaked up on them in the dark of night and led Sammy down the wrong path.

John's youngest didn't understand this right now, and John himself had made the terrifying decision to keep the truth from Sam to avoid inadvertently causing a chain reaction that would lead to the blood curdling future that the demon underworld kept predicting for his kid. The very one Papa Jacques assured him was coming and coming _fast_.

So John would play the part of the asshole dictator father a little longer, and someday, hopefully, Sammy would forgive him.

"Sammy," he tried, reaching again for his boy who now had tears streaming down hot flushed cheeks.

Sam sniffed, swallowed hard and shifted back even further as he wiped his face and pinned John with a look of pure hatred.

"Go to hell, _Dad_ ," he spat out, his voice shaky and watery and _hurt_ , before turning on his heel and striding for the stairs.

John sighed as Dean shook his head sadly, and the weary father could see the shaken faith in the eyes of his firstborn before he too headed for the stairs.

Dropping boneless in one of the kitchen chairs, John leaned forward and rubbed his face with both hands, massaging his aching temples.

"Yeah, mostly likely I will," he said quietly to no one.

/

Dean didn't even bother knocking on Sam's door. He just walked right in, knowing how badly his kid brother was hurting at the moment. Not surprised to find Sammy lying on his side on the bed, determinedly facing away from the door.

Dean crossed the room, stood at the edge of the bed and waited.

Sure enough, Sam inched over slightly, a silent granting of permission to join him, and the worried big brother toed off his boots and climbed on. Sam didn't move further away or any closer as his brother lay down on his back, arms crossed behind his head. Dean didn't shift any nearer, even though he could tell by the steady shaking of Sammy's thin frame that the younger boy was silently crying.

Reaching out, he gently rubbed Sam's shivering back, desperately attempting to give his kid some comfort, and hating himself that he hadn't delivered on the promise he made his little brother.

Not yet, anyway.

"It's okay, Sammy," he soothed, already forming a plan in his mind. "We're gonna figure this out, I promise. You and me, kiddo. Together."

And Sam simply cried harder, because, while he dearly wanted to, he just couldn't make himself believe.


	13. May 2001

A/N Thanks to all of you who took the time to read the previous chapter, and especially the ones that took the time to review. I apologize for the delay. This chapter did not want to be written! Maybe because there is so much drama coming up in future chapters, and I was hoping to give you all at least a quick angst break! More or less fluff this month.

/

Almost eight months, and Dean still wasn't comfortable among the suburban soccer moms pushing their squeaky wheeled carts through the aisles of the local market.

Not like he could get away with _not_ shopping.

When you have a ginormous kid brother that ate like a linebacker and yet never seemed to gain any weight for his efforts, it was a pretty sure guarantee that food was going to have to be purchased.

 _Often._

In _increasingly_ large quantities.

It was worse during his current visit than usual. On the first of any given month, the store would be positively swollen with the ranks of those on fixed incomes who would have received their monthly checks. Today especially, it seemed like the entirety of the _Sioux Falls_ _Area Annoying Shoppers Club_ was out in full force, shoving and jockeying for whatever happened to be advertised as a good bargain in the new store flier.

Dean generally steered clear of the supermarket for the first few days of a month just for that reason alone, not being a particularly social creature when there weren't beers to be had or pretty ladies to flirt with.

He'd been working late hours to make up for the week away in DC, and now they were down to only toast and half a box of nearly stale blueberry Pop Tarts, _which were not even in Sammy's top three flavors_ , as the only choices for breakfast. So a trip to the market had definitely been required before his kid brother drove him crazy.

No one wanted to start their morning listening to a hungry, cranky Sammy huff and crab over the absence of melon, yogurt, _only the organic kind please,_ and tree hugging hippy granola in their lives.

Why they had picked up a box of toaster pastry that neither of them liked in the first place was still mystery. Dean could only guess that it was the result of what happens when two guys shopped without making sure they ate a good meal before they went to the store. You tend to pick up the weirdest things when you're late making dinner and desperate to get through the grocery chore as quickly as possible.

Tomorrow was Sammy's eighteenth birthday, and besides all the food required for the birthday barbecue he was making for his little brother's study group, Dean needed to make sure he picked up the requisite Little Debbie Swiss Roll, or the entire day would be ruined before it even started.

Although, to be perfectly honest, the day was probably _already_ ruined.

Regardless of whether or not Dean brought home the pathetically inadequate mass produced confection that, while now traditional, still sometimes painfully served as a reminder of the jacked up way the Winchester boys had been forced to celebrate their advancing ages in cold, impersonal, sometimes relatively skeevy motel rooms.

In more recent years, it was a subtle in-joke.

Able to be looked at with a semblance of dark humor, and almost fond nostalgia, since their financial situation was drastically improved as they got older and the abject poverty they had often existed in became less pronounced. Tomorrow, in the aftermath of the enormous fight between John and Sam, it would just be another check mark in the negative column of all of their father's personal failings in the mind of his youngest son.

And Dad _really_ didn't need any assistance in looking bad in Sam's eyes these days.

Reluctantly, Dean steered his own cart in the direction of the snack food aisle. The rear left wheel frustratingly insisted on frequently skipping and sliding from some random, unidentifiable gray blob sticking to the rubber. It made the navigation through the crowds even more annoying and tedious than it already was, and that was definitely saying something.

Unfortunately, the basket was also already a third full, and he was simply too irritated and too tired to swap it out with another that probably also had some kind of malicious and obviously intentional speed or coordination defect.

Did Dean mention that he _hated_ shopping?

To his dismay, the snack aisle was absolutely clogged with slow moving shoppers, plodding their way along as if there was no one else behind them.

Parking their carts dead center among the throng as they ambled and selfishly blocked entire sections of the shelves. Minutely scrutinizing the ingredients and prices of items that they surely bought on a regular basis, as if suddenly their favorite flavor of potato chip might miraculously turn out to be healthy after all, or increase exactly one cent in cost that would mentally throw them over the ledge just on principle alone.

Dean hated that kind of recreational shopper.

 _He_ certainly didn't have time in his day to obsess that deeply over something that was going to be a part of his life for the few hours it took to digest it.

Dean was more of an _attack shopper_. Preferring to treat the supermarket like any other hunt.

Happy to just get in, get it done and get back out before the sun set.

You know, like the way shopping _should be_ done!

If that meant that he might have to shoot something along the way, well, that was okay too.

Somehow he managed to wend his way towards the shelf with the obscenely large selection of snack cakes, slipping into the tiniest of openings between a harried mother of three kids jammed into her cart, all wailing out their personal preferences for sweets in ear piercing decibels, and an angry looking man that, honestly, should consider spending more time in the produce section.

With the subtlest of body checks to angry dude, he grabbed the box of Little Debbie and extricated himself as quickly as possible.

Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed the list that Sam had insisted on him making for this specific trip.

Always methodical and prepared was Dean's little brother.

Lists and schedules and graphs and charts, the adorable little nerd. Except when it came to grocery shopping, because normally Sammy didn't want to waste time buying food when he could be studying _The History of Early American Cabinet Making_ , or some other shit.

So generally, it was Dean alone in the store and he wasn't nearly as particular as his younger sibling.

But not today.

Whereas Dean would just usually grab the comfortable and familiar, the birthday boy had _very_ _specific_ requests for tomorrow's barbecue.

And that was _fine._

Dean was more than happy to get his kid brother whatever it took to make Sam smile. Because smiles were rare on the youngest Winchester lately, and Dean positively demanded that turning eighteen entitled his kid to _anything_ that Sam wanted if it was in Dean's power to give.

The offer of a _brothers only_ road trip to Chicago had already been turned down, even though Sam had mentioned on several occasions that he wanted to visit without being on a job, because tomorrow was a school day, and there was some kind of test to take, or a project due, or some other kind of geek boy issue or another.

Whatever it was, Sam was determined not to play hooky, and Dean was going to respect that.

It didn't mean that the kid wasn't getting a special celebration.

Even if Sam had been less than enthusiastic about turning a milestone year, dulling down his already low tolerance for holidays and special events to new _bottom-of-the-barrel_ scraping levels of disinterest and apathy.

Everyone's nerves were still pretty raw from the blowout with Dad.

Not that their father's negative reaction was necessarily a surprise to either of the brothers, if the truth were to be told. John Winchester didn't like to have even the smallest of surprises sprung on him by his children about the most mundane of topics. Let alone something as life altering as Sam's departure from a full time immersion in The Life. Dean couldn't say with any degree of honesty that he had ever expected his father to handle the news with any sort of calm and rational reaction.

 _Yes_ , it had been much worse than the older brother anticipated, and that was definitely saying a lot.

 _Yes_ , it had strained the relationship between oldest and youngest Winchester, right to the breaking point, even more than could be expected.

 _Yes_ , Dean had been completely floored that Dad had lost his cool enough to give Sam the reactionary slap, because their father never hit his boys like that.

 _Ever_.

John had been known to take out his anger and frustration on monsters, motel room furniture and even certain lecherous humans that had taken a decidedly unhealthy interest in one of his kids. The hard pavement under his feet as he ran, hell bent for leather, to work off a head of steam. The packed, unyielding dirt of a graveyard, as he dug for bones. Occasionally even old wrecks in the salvage yard with a tire iron.

But _never_ his kids.

Some, with a differing viewpoint on child rearing, might try to make the argument that a round with his father's belt was, in fact, getting hit, but Dean wasn't going to engage in the semantics over the differences between punishment and abuse.

He and Sammy knew perfectly well where the lines of acceptable behavior were drawn, and what the consequences of stepping over those lines were. As judgmental and derisive as his little brother was, even Sammy would grudgingly admit that he had earned every lick he had received over the years.

Getting your ass smacked for being a disobedient brat was a given in their home. Dad was fighting a full time war against real evil, and he didn't have the luxury of time to nitpick over progressive parenting techniques when his lessons needed to be learned fast and sure by two boys that were as stubborn and hard headed as he was, but still needed to unfailingly obey him because all too often they were in life or death situations.

Sam also knew better than to bring Mom up in heated conversation. That was the one topic guaranteed to make Dad see red.

 _Every_ time.

Regardless of whether or not Sam had a legitimate point, invoking Mom's name was a cheap shot, and Dean was still annoyed himself over it.

Sam had crossed a line that he knew better than to cross. Sure the kid had been understandably upset and hurt and frustrated, but that was no excuse to be caustically flippant about their mom's death. Dean might have taken a swing at his brother himself, if he had been the one standing there.

In fact, Dean _had_ punched his brother in a fit of anger back in Elko, so he didn't have any moral high ground to stand on and judge his father's actions any more harshly than his own had been. He was, however, perfectly willing to fully admit that he and Dad had both been wrong in the way they had acted towards their youngest.

All three of the Winchesters had hot tempers on occasion, and fights between the brothers had become physical sometimes, but Dad had always been able to maintain his calm before this last bout. Sam wasn't brash enough, or disrespectful enough, to take a swing at Dad in the literal sense, but his words had been just as sharp and painful as his father's hand had been to him.

Dean knew his father better than anyone. Dad had been immediately wrecked after lashing out at Sammy like that. His remorse and regret instantaneous and sincere. John wasn't about to excuse his loss of control over his emotions, and he wasn't likely to ever forgive himself for it either.

In fact, Dad had genuinely apologized to Sam for the slap later that day. _Twice._ An unprecedented level of remorse in their world, but Sam was holding tight to his anger and hurt like they were prized possessions.

Because Dad _was_ sorry about smacking Sam, but he also was certainly _not_ going to apologize for putting an end to any ideas Sam had about going off to school. That was what Sammy couldn't understand about their fight. Little brother was wrapping the entire incident into one big package of pain and disappointment instead of understanding the sum of its parts.

And it was preventing Sam from admitting any culpability of his own in the mess.

After one very uncomfortable day together, John had taken off again, leaving unresolved issues and a seething son behind. Of course, Dean knew that, to their father anyway, the issue of Sammy's academic future _was_ , in fact, resolved, whether or not Sam could accept that.

It had been a shame really, because their vacation together had been truly wonderful. Something that should have been a happy memory that could be looked back upon in later years with affection and fondness. Now it would only serve to remind them all as being the precursor to the biggest fight John and Sam ever had to date.

The whole week had obviously been so important to Dad, even though he hadn't given any clear reasons why, but that didn't mean that Dean didn't see it on his father's face anytime he looked at John when the older man didn't realize he was being studied. The way he was truly happy and relaxed for the first time _ever_ in recent years of memory. Where his forehead wasn't creased with worry lines over the next job or eyes bleary from lack of sleep or too much tequila.

There was a peace about John that hadn't shown itself in years, since their time by the seaside in Delaware. Dean wasn't sure why his father hadn't seemed to remember that the DC trip wasn't really the first vacation the Winchesters had ever taken. Maybe because it was the first one where John and Dean didn't talk about the family business _at all_ , but it definitely wasn't the only time they had spent lazy tranquil days together.

/

When Dean was eleven years old, and Sam, a _very_ tiny seven, Dad had done a poltergeist job in Delaware, right outside of Dover, for a corporate executive of a large pharmaceutical company.

For whatever reason, it had attached itself to the man's fourteen year old son. With an animal's primal savagery, attacking, ripping and tearing at the terrified kid right in front of his helpless parents relentlessly for days before their parish priest reached out in desperation to Jim Murphy, who, in turn, called John.

It was bad enough that the Winchesters actually left the potential job John was investigating in Poughkeepsie, New York. Dropping everything and running, tear assing his way to the family house at breakneck speeds for the four hour trip, John swiftly and expertly purified the house and torched the thing before the boy could be gruesomely murdered while his family watched.

Although the boy was horrendously scarred, he made it out breathing and in one piece, and the wealthy family had been so incredibly grateful that they became one of the few lucky beneficiaries of the special talents of the Winchester family that actually compensated John for his efforts.

For the first time in a long time, John and his kids weren't struggling hand to mouth. The boys were bought new clothes and toys, including Dean's first Walkman. As well as necessary additions to the family arsenal and cash set aside for a nicer apartment for the start of the school year in a few weeks. For quite a while afterwards, John didn't have to hustle to put food on the table, and fun excursions between jobs were more frequent.

But it wasn't the monetary reward that Dean remembered most.

The executive also had a waterfront cottage on Rohoboth Beach, and he very generously offered the use of it to John and his kids for a couple of weeks until Labor Day weekend, when his annual family reunion would be taking place. An extra special reunion this year, considering that his son was still alive to participate in it thanks to John.

Although the property was in full view of the ocean, the boys weren't allowed on the beach because the riptides were strong and crowds were thick. Tourist season was in full swing and there was a steady mob of people constantly milling about. John wasn't risking his sons' safety among so many strangers.

It also wasn't often that they had a chance to stay in a place with a pool, because their usual brand of _laugh and scratch_ motels rarely invested the necessary funds to build or maintain one. Sammy hadn't even learned to swim yet, with Dad too busy to teach him like he had with Dean before the fire.

Fortunately for them, there was a good sized one in the backyard of the cottage, and when John wasn't deeply engrossed in scribbling new entries into his journal, he'd go outside with his sons and let Dean splash around with wild abandon, while he himself patiently taught his seven year old all about swimming and water safety.

Taking another job at the time was out of the question. Bobby had arranged for another hunter to follow up in Poughkeepsie, which actually wasn't a job at all. Just a jealous ex-husband that was getting his kicks from tormenting the woman that had left him. John's encounter with the severely scarred poltergeist victim stimulated his protective father instinct into overdrive, and he just needed some real down time to assure himself that Sam and Dean were safe and healthy.

Dean remembers the weather during those weeks being absolutely beautiful. The warmth of the late summer sun and freshness in the air of approaching autumn. As the days slowly passed, all three Winchesters took a much needed breath.

Dad would work outside, when he wasn't giving Sammy lessons, sheltered under an umbrella spreading out over the patio table as he scratched out notes on the poltergeist. Keeping an ever sharp eye out while the boys played in the pool. Dean doing cannonballs with the gleeful abandon of a high spirited boy and playfully splashing Sam dog paddling in water wings. Bare arms and legs browning as they tanned, and flecks of gold shimmering in Dean's hair as his freckles darkened.

In the late afternoons they would stroll down the boardwalk.

The boys had been awed by the variety of shops selling a million things and, for once, they had money to buy. Dad had taken some of the reward cash and bought them real summer clothes instead of their usual sturdy hunter togs. Colorful novelty t-shirts and shorts, taking the place of second hand neutrals and faded jeans, along with new swimming trunks.

As they ambled their way down the sea salted and sun battered parquet planks of the boardwalk, Dean would run just enough ahead of them to make Dad slightly nervous, as Sammy strained to pull his little hand out of the tight security of his father's own. Always desperate for more freedom and independence, and wanting to keep up with his brother. John didn't budge, barking out the occasional warning that brought his mischievous eleven year old meekly back to his side, and keeping an iron clad grip on his seven year old at all times.

Dad was rarely that clingy with them, so the boys didn't fuss too much about the overt attention, and the steady stream of vacationers, loud and gawking, sometimes frightened the very timid and shy Sammy anyway.

Every visit to the boardwalk included time at Funland, and Dad would buy long strips of ridiculously cheap tickets for the old fashioned rides.

Brightly painted horses on carousals and little boats and fire engines spinning around and around, with smiling children and squeals of glee. Some rides Dad would have to go on with them, because Sammy was still small and needed his father's arm around him to keep the little boy feeling secure. _The Paratrooper_ and _The Helicopters_ were scary for an undersized seven year old, and even Dean needed John's comforting presence for the tumultuous swing of _The_ _Sea Dragon_.

Dad was determined to have his boys face their fears, because it was important to their futures as hunters. If that meant frequently going on the rides that made their tummies clench in apprehensive anticipation, then that was what they were going to do.

Of course, it was fun too, so more of a win-win situation than normal training.

In the evenings, they would have dinner from one of the dozen take away places. It was here that Dean first experienced the best bacon cheeseburger he had ever eaten. The first time he had taken a bite, he swore he was in Heaven. To this day, it was still his favorite meal, and no other burger anywhere in their travels even came close to it.

It had since become his personal quest to find it's equal or better, resulting in his usual order at diners around the country. Dad had uncharacteristically indulged him with a burger every day during their time in Rohoboth, because there were lots of other choices nearby for John and Sam to try different things.

After dinner they would hit the arcade, and Dad would turn games into lessons on position, aiming and balance. Teaching Dean how to compensate for the intentional weighting of equipment meant to throw you off a little in the house's favor. Also choosing some electronic selections to brush up his boys' reflexes while they enjoyed playing video games.

Always careful with his wording, because Sammy still didn't know about the family business.

Dean must have won fifty prizes during their time there. Letting Sammy keep a few of his favorites for long drives in the Impala, and generously giving the rest to kids who weren't so fortunate in their gaming endeavors. The only upsetting thing being his frustrating inability to ever win enough points for the rainbow slinky he coveted.

Dad had indulgently offered to win one for him, because he could tell that particular game was really too hard even for John's talented kid, but it became a matter of pride to his firstborn, although they eventually left the area without one.

Each night ended with the family spending some time on the bumper cars. Dad and Sammy in one, and Dean in the other. Already in love with driving and speed, and only lamenting the lack of a black car option so he could pretend it was the Impala. Afterwards, they would stroll back to the cottage, snacking on buttered and salted grease paper bags of popcorn and candied almonds as the sea gulls followed them, hoping to snatch up whatever fell from the boys' hands.

They would stumble into their temporary home, tanned, tired and stuffed, and Dad would send them to wash up before he put them to bed early. They had never complained, because every day was joyous and carefree, with the promise of new adventures when morning dawned again, and John always saved his real work for the nighttime while his boys slept with dreams of salt water taffy, sunshine and cheeseburgers.

For some reason, Dad seemed to have forgotten about that blissful time in Rehoboth, and since happy, family times for the Winchesters were as rare as virgins in TJ, Dean found himself wondering why.

/

In the harshly lit bright florescence of the sprawling electronics store, John stood and rubbed the back of his neck.

Uncharacteristically uncomfortable and uncertain, he let his eyes sweep around the computer department, without the tiniest clue of where he should begin his search for the desperately needed olive branch to extend to his youngest son.

For a man that could easily find his way around an engine, the inner workings of new generation computers were still something of a mystery to him. With the stakes so high, he was worried that some sort of basic ignorance on his part would have him procuring a model that was completely inadequate for the idea he had rattling around in his head since his fight with Sammy over college.

It hadn't taken but a few moments afterwards for John's head to clear enough to realize how wildly he had overreacted, and how thoroughly he had destroyed all the positive memories he and his little boy had carefully built up during their vacation week together.

It was evident in his stinging palm and the hushed, unbelievably tense silence in the air weighing heavily on them all.

The accusatory full red flush of a father's painful slap to a young son's cheek.

After both of his sons had fled for an escape in the house that was _anywhere_ but where their father was at the moment, John had sat at that empty kitchen table for over an hour just coming to terms with what had transpired. There had been no movement or sound from the upstairs during the entire miserable time John languished in silence on his own.

No steely faced and determined Sammy, face burning with righteous indignation, storming back down for a round two with an overbearing and domineering father that had summarily crushed his dreams.

No steady and loyal Dean, calm and placating, treading lightly to make peace and talk sense, or even to haltingly express a respectful condemnation of his father's actions.

Eventually John had pushed himself up and started to move, because there was nothing else he _could_ do.

He wasn't going to force himself on his kids at the moment, knowing with absolute certainty that he wasn't planning on backing down from his earlier stance, regardless of what they tried to tag team him into agreeing to. Because it wasn't the decision he had made that had built up a curdling swell of regret bubbling inside him.

It was simply the method of delivery he had chosen to express it.

So he had gone over to the sink, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest over the memory of Sammy's desperate pleading voice, so much _younger_ than he normally sounded, and the iron clad grip John had clamped against his kid to force the boy to do his father's bidding. The burned papers were now nothing but hauntingly accusatory mounds of ash in the basin, and John was an expert at covering his tracks after a salt and burn. Making quick work of scooping the whole mess up and disposing of all the evidence into the trash, washing and scrubbing at the remains.

Not wanting either of his boys to catch a glimpse of the reminder of their father's hellish temper and the near total control he insisted on maintaining over them both.

And then he had laughed bitterly to himself, delusion making him think for a fraction of a second that his bright boys would somehow forget what had transpired that morning if there were no physical traces left to implicate John as being the dictator father that he had indeed exposed himself to be.

At ends with trying to keep himself occupied before he lost the last few fragments of his sanity, for a while he puttered.

Taking out the trash.

Sweeping the floors.

Tightening one of the locks on the back door that was just a tad more loose than John was comfortable with.

Cleaning out the fridge, because sometimes the boys would forget about leftovers from a few days prior, and John would come back to find containers of expired food approaching near science experiment levels of decay.

Then, as he pitched and threw away, he would inevitably have to push back the overwhelming fear over wondering if they allowed things to get that bad, either because having a regular sized refrigerator to fill and maintain was still a relatively novel concept, or _worse_ because having enough food in the house for leftovers to sit uneaten was a new luxury in their lives.

Neither thought made him feel any more than the world's shittiest father.

In retrospect, cleaning out the fridge probably wasn't the best idea to have on that particular morning.

All it had done was remind John of the multitude of disappointments on his part over the years. Of every single time he had to struggle to make sure that his kids were fed.

His boys had _always_ had food to eat. John had made sure of it no matter what he had needed to do, and sometimes what he needed to do took another strip off of himself for how low he had sunk from the respectable man he once had been. Cheating and stealing and conning his way through life.

Sometimes, though, it had been harder than others.

Living off the grid and hand to mouth got rough when life threw you curve balls, as it inevitably did.

 _Often_.

Especially with two young boys and a hazardous job without pay or benefits that kept you on the road constantly.

John might think he had everything under control, but then the Impala would get a flat that couldn't be patched. Or Dean would get into a fight at school and have a tooth knocked loose that needed real dental care. Or Sammy would rip through the last thin layer of canvas and thread holding together Dean's hand-me-down sneakers and need a new pair.

Then, all of a sudden, the grocery money John had carefully set aside vanished into the thin air of desperation and auxiliary need. So he would hustle, if he could, but even the mighty John Winchester lost sometimes and would be forced to make his way, hat in hand, to the local food bank.

Pride had its limits when you had two small boys depending on you.

John's kids weren't spoiled. Not even a little bit. Something that might have made him proud if he didn't know that their lack of pretension stemmed from their lack of...well...just about _everything_ else.

And that was on _him_.

 _He_ did that to his boys.

At least he knew that whatever he managed to bring home, his sons would willingly eat. John would eventually return with two paper bags full of donated food and unload the contents on their table of the week. Sammy might be excited to see new things he wanted to try, or he might be a little petulant that his father seemed to forget the items that the brothers preferred for their meals.

But John couldn't deceive himself about his firstborn.

Without ever mentioning it between them, John could see in Dean's eyes that his eldest son knew _exactly_ where their groceries had come from, and why. The shamed father would watch as Dean, with a practiced confidence and indifference, easily distracted and deflected Sammy's comments and criticisms, already hyping up the positives so that his little brother wouldn't bother to dwell on the negatives.

And Dean never said one word that would chip away at John's already battered ego, or express understandable frustration over the dire straights the family occasionally found themselves due to John's obsession.

Never even _once._

All of these memories battled in his mind as he had crouched down in front of the refrigerator of their little rented house and gave a take out container of Chinese food a tentative sniff. Finally making the choice to dump it out because John would rather be safe than sorry when it came to food poisoning and his kids. He'd be more than happy to replace it later for dinner if his sons had a sudden craving for lo mein.

Thinking about dinner had made him glance at his watch and realize that it was past noon, and with that realization came the reminder that the morning's unpleasantness meant that neither of his boys had eaten yet that day. Which only made John's guilt crank up another notch to a level that he wasn't even sure was possible considering how he already felt every day.

And then some kind of manic frenzy had taken him over.

A wild desperate need to cook for them and make sure that they were fed and healthy, because his paternal approval rating was dropping pretty low below his standard bar of absolute woeful inadequacy at the moment, which was truly saying something.

He knew, without needing to be told in so many words, that his kids were avoiding the first floor of the house like the plague because they knew he was still down there, and that knowledge cut him like a razor sharp knife to the gut. What he also knew was that his boys weren't going to go hungry on his watch if he could help it.

Dean usually kept a fairly well stocked kitchen. John had been more aggressive this past year than normal in his various methods of acquiring finances, determined to defray as much of the cost of their home as possible from the shoulders of his firstborn. In the past few months, it had been significantly more than just rent money that he had been giving Dean, and he was pleased to see how well his son was managing it.

It was easy to collect the fixings for the spaghetti and meat sauce that was John's specialty and favorite of his kids, and within fifteen minutes he had sauce bubbling and the air soaked in the pleasant aroma of sauteed beef, onions and garlic.

He had called up the stairs to his sons, _twice_ , to summon them down to lunch.

His first attempt, posed as a question of _You boys hungry?_ was completely ignored, and he grudgingly allowed it because he was pretty sure that he did deserve their disdain at the moment.

The second attempt, a little more insistent suggestion _Boys_ _you should eat something_ , was met by a muffled decline of interest from behind Sammy's bedroom door. From _Dean_.

Deciding the best tact was to keep treading lightly, he briefly returned to the kitchen. John didn't want to push them, and there was still some time left while the garlic toast was assembled, and cheese was melted, and plates were set on the table.

His third summons, less suggestion and more statement _Lunch is on the table_ , was met by an even more firm refusal than before. From _both_ boys.

By the time John issued the fourth _Come down here and eat...NOW_ , clearly delivered as a command, he wasn't kidding around anymore.

In retrospect, it was the culmination of his own lingering anger, hurt feelings, remorse and terror, all combining with the anticipated emotional stew of pain, frustration and abject sadness of his two kids that finally led John to snap and bark out an order demanding their presence downstairs.

As if defaulting back into the status of their commanding officer was the best idea at the moment, when all he really wanted to do was be a loving dad feeding his surely hungry boys a decent meal.

Of course the order had worked, because John's orders were _always_ obeyed, and his sons had sullenly descended the stairs and strode unwillingly towards the table. Neither of them really spoke to him, even as he tried to smile and make casual remarks while dishing up heavy plates of pasta and bread for his kids.

Dean stood rigid in a soldier's at ease position, eyes straight ahead and refusing to engage his father's own. Sammy, who clearly had been crying upstairs, standing shoulder to shoulder next to his brother, slightly taller but with a defeated slump to his posture, red and swollen eyes blinking rapidly, but with his jaw set in gritty determination.

John took a good hard look at his youngest. Stubborn and miserable, tottering on the long, thin spindly legs of a baby moose as his limbs continued to grow and stretch impossibly.

The sudden need to feed his skinny kid was overwhelming him at that moment, with a ferocity that he couldn't quite explain. It's not as if Sammy was starving. In the past week they had spent together, his youngest ate both his father and brother under the table.

 _Combined._

But the notion that his little boy had forgone consuming anything at all that day because his old man had shit all over his dreams was too much for John to take when he already felt like kicking his own ass.

He ordered them both to sit and then thrust the plates of pasta at them with a frenzied urgency that made them all decidedly uncomfortable. A further order to actually _make_ them eat what was in front of them got obedient, although irritated, acquiescence from his firstborn.

Dean mechanically shoved forkfuls of twirled spaghetti into his mouth at a measured pace, eyes still facing forward as he gave forced one worded answers to his father's attempt at conversation. It took a significantly more insistence to win compliance from his youngest. Gingerly holding his fork in his slim fingers, Sam took miniscule tentative bites, each halting move grating against his father's already thin patience.

It was a strained meal to say the least.

John had apologized to Sammy for losing his temper and slapping him. Expressing true remorse and a fairly obvious degree of self loathing. Sam didn't verbally acknowledge his father's attempt to smooth things over, and at first John didn't push him to.

Unfortunately, John's increasing desperation to make peace with his kid, without backing down on his original and final decision on the matter of Sam going away to school, began to manifest itself in his insistence that his son eat his lunch with more vigor than the less than willing manner he currently was exhibiting.

The more John pushed, the less Sam put in his mouth.

The less Sam ate, the more upset Dean became, and John could see his firstborn gearing up to intercede if things got too hairy.

Which only irked John more, because this was a matter between himself and his youngest, causing him to unintentionally ramp up his commands to Sammy.

Promoting a vicious cycle of escalating tension that culminated in John refusing Sam's eventual increasingly stressful pleas to be excused from the table.

Which prompted Dean to try to convince his father to let Sam go back upstairs.

Making John even more insistent that his youngest stay where he was and finish his lunch.

Which only upped Sam's frantic need to escape, until finally the youngest Winchester bolted into the recently renovated first floor bathroom, where his father and brother overheard the loud pitiful sounds of Sammy vomiting up his father's lovingly assembled pasta.

Dean sat straight and tall at the table, eyes in front and jaw clenched, clearly waiting for his father's permission to attend to his little brother. Defeated and weary, John had finally given him a curt nod, allowing it, and he remained sitting alone at the table in abject shame and sorrow while his firstborn coaxed Sammy out of the bathroom and back up to his room.

John left that night, unable to face his children for a while under the crushing weight of how badly he had fucked things up between them, and although he occasionally called to check in with Dean, he hadn't seen either son since.

But tomorrow was Sammy's birthday. His eighteenth. The day that John's little boy claimed his first real step towards manhood. John was determined to make everything up to his son while there was still a chance to reforge a relationship between them that didn't solely hinge on Sam's ingrained obedience to his father's stringent commands.

Sammy was a smart kid.

So, so very smart that his knowledge and wit had taken John's breath away a million times over the years. Of course his scarily bright son wanted to go to college, and if you had told John seventeen and a half years ago that his youngest would earn scholarships for full rides and even an acceptance at _Stanford,_ John would have been over the moon with pride.

Regardless of how he felt about his own highly educated father, because Sam was _not_ Henry, and John felt confident that he had impressed on both of his kids how important family was, and how they needed to stick together above all else.

That meant that John couldn't let his son go off on his own when it was far too dangerous for Sammy to be in a position where he didn't have the constant protection of his father and older brother.

But it also didn't mean that a loving father wasn't willing to find a compromise, either.

Yes, John was still a novice in the rapidly developing world of computers and online resources, but even _he_ knew that you could take classes over the internet these days for actual college degrees. Not that anything Sam could earn online would have a large prestige to it, but the kid didn't need to build an impressive resume.

If he just wanted to learn, Sam could do that no matter where the family went on their jobs around the country. All John had to do was make sure that his son had the equipment necessary to make it possible.

It wasn't like having computer resources wouldn't be also beneficial to their hunts either. In John's mind, he was about to make an investment in the futures of both his son and his quest.

He stood in the store until a helpful clerk took pity on him, and then he very carefully explained his needs. An hour later, after spending an absolute fortune that would have him back living in his truck once again when he was on the road, John walked out with a large shopping bag and a small sliver of hope.

/

It's just after midnight when Dean waltzes into Sam's bedroom without announcing himself.

Carrying a small plate with a single Swiss Roll, a candle burning in its center, and loudly singing a raucous version of _Happy Birthday_ off key and with great theatrics.

Wiped out from track practice and long hours of studying, Sam had actually fallen asleep, even knowing that his rest would be interrupted this particular night.

Tiredly, Sam shifts under his blanket and pulls himself up to sit against the headboard. A huge smile on his face and rubbing sleep out of his eyes, he scoots over slightly to give his brother room. Balancing the plate, Dean flops next to him, and they sit side by side against the headboard as Sam leans over to blow out the candle.

The light streaming in from the hallway through the open door is casting shadows around the room as the brothers relax in a moment of companionable silence. Blinking in the dimness, Sam looks around and sees all the evidence of the home life they have created here and he smiles even wider, remembering that it was his birthday wish a year ago today that was the catalyst for this past wonderfully normal school year.

That, and the determination of a loving older brother that worked so hard to make it possible.

He reaches out to the plate and grabs the cake, discarding the spent candle and making the traditional split down the middle, before handing half to Dean. Feeling sleepy and affectionate, Sam grabs one of his pillows and jams it against Dean's shoulder and then leans over until he's resting snugly on it while he nibbles on his chocolate. Although he can't see Dean's smile, he knows that it's there all the same, and he can hear the warm indulgence in his big brother's voice.

"You gonna tell me what you wished for?"

Grinning, Sam shakes his head and licks at the cream in the center of the roll. "Nope. You have to guess this time."

He both hears and feels Dean laughing gently as his brother shifts slightly to make Sam's position more comfortable against him.

"I dunno, dude. I have a pretty active imagination," Dean teases as he eats. "You should think twice about wanting me to go there. You might find yourself in a room with triplets and latex."

"I'll take my chances," Sam replies easily, swallowing the last of his birthday treat. He chuckles and closes his eyes, content to just sit for a while.

There's no simple way to admit to Dean that Sam's greatest wish now is for peace in his family while still being able to follow his own dreams. Not just because, through all his hurt, he's still shamefully craving his father's approval and acceptance, without Sam having to commit the entirety of his life to the family crusade.

Especially since he knows that his big brother will break himself in half bending over backwards to accommodate Sam in any way he can, regardless of what it costs.

The past year has been the most incredible gift of Sam's life, and he's truly grateful and humble for the differences it has made. Like this easy rapport right now.

While the brothers have always been closer than most siblings, in ways that are too difficult to explain to others who can't comprehend the complex relationship that has developed from their unusual circumstances, it's only been the past months of living a regular domestic family life that has allowed for a less gruff and overly macho approach between them.

A real maturation of their brotherhood.

Where Dean is not nearly as reserved about giving and receiving hugs because, despite Sam's dark streak of anger, he's a still more of a sensitive soul that needs the comfort of affection from his family when he's feeling insecure.

Where Sam is less resentful of his brother's protectiveness and parental level care of him, because it's become abundantly clear in their new home environment that Dean looks after him because he genuinely _wants_ to, and not just because Dad _orders_ him to.

There hasn't been the constant worry and frenzy, or the frequent unease of a shy child always feeling cast out and freakish. In this house, they've been just a regular family, with neighbors and friends and a lawn that needs to be mowed, and furniture that only they have used. Pictures on the walls, stable daily schedules and good memories made.

It's almost everything that Sam has ever wanted, and he has his brother to thank for it.

Which is why he can't bring himself to ask for anything more.

"So, you're a full on adult now, kiddo," Dean says quietly. "And as your wiser, smarter, better looking elder, I want you to remember one very important thing."

Eyes still closed and feeling half asleep, Sam laughs softly. "Yeah? What's that?"

Dean waits half a heartbeat, clearing his throat and sighing deeply. Taking his time to find the right words, so that Sammy understands clearly.

"Doesn't matter how old you get, Sammy," he finally says. "Or where you are. I'm _always_ gonna be your big brother, and I'm _always_ gonna protect you and watch out for you."

Sam's eyes blink open as he sucks in a sharp quick breath, flooded with emotion over the earnestness and ferocity of his brother's words and promises. He knows what he means to Dean. Knows what Dean means to him in return. In the maelstrom of uncertainty and confusion that has been thundering around his brain recently, he's never once doubted his brother.

"I know," he responds, voice barely above a whisper. "Thanks for that."

And he means it. Because their brotherhood is what gives him the confidence he possesses to finally grow up. Able to strike out and make his way in the world knowing that he's never truly on his own.

Dean nods to himself, feeling a little better than he had earlier. He stretches just enough to set the empty plate on the night table next to him, not wanting to jostle Sam into moving away. He doesn't really care if they are neck deep in a chick flick moment right now or not, but he does clear his throat again to dislodge the accumulated sentiment that might give him away, because he can't let his little brother see him be weak.

"Okay, tough guy," he says, firmly implementing his usual sarcasm and bravado. "Now that you're all legal, am I gonna have to worry about you running around all night and going off the rails? Because if you are, tell me so I can start napping during the day and saving up for bail money."

From deep in the pillow on his shoulder, Dean hears the amused, throaty laughter of his kid brother, and he smiles.

"Nah. Don't worry," Sam assures him with humor in his voice. "I'll be a good boy and behave myself and keep obeying the _R_ _ules_. I promise. Wouldn't wanna deprive you of the beauty sleep you desperately need."

"Hey!" Dean protests, delivering a soft kick to Sam's blanketed ankle. "I'm already pretty enough for the both of us, and you know it."

Sam laughs again and rolls his eyes, burrowing deeper into the pillow and feeling pretty sleepy and content.

"Dad'll be glad to hear that, anyways," Dean mutters, more to himself than to his brother.

"I don't care what Dad thinks anymore," Sam says quietly, with more than a hint of sadness and resignation.

Dean's head jerks up and he reaches over to push away the part of the pillow that was blocking him from seeing Sam's face.

"Hey, Sammy," he chastises gently. "Don't be like that, kiddo. Please?"

Sam's face is young and sorrowful as he huffs derisively and shakes his head, and Dean frowns because it's going to break his heart if his father and brother can't come to an understanding between them. Sammy may still be upset right now, but Dean's not going to tolerate the kid disrespecting Dad.

"I don't wanna fight," Sam says sincerely, knowing by the look on his brother's face what Dean is thinking, "but he's made it pretty clear that he doesn't care what I want."

"Sammy," Dean starts to protest, only to be stopped by Sam shaking his head and holding up a cautionary hand.

"It's fine, Dean, really," he insists. "I'm not gonna make any trouble for you with Dad while we're still living here. I'll keep my mouth shut when he's home, and I'll still do whatever you tell me to."

"Oh, really?" Dean snorts, playfully cocking an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Yeah," Sam replies quietly. "Because you're always gonna be my big brother, jerk."

There's honesty in Sam's voice when he says this, and undisguised affection in his eyes as he stares directly at Dean in the semi-darkness of the room. Stunned, Dean lets out a little snarky breath, trying desperately to save face because his little brother's words have just completely undone him. He is seconds away from losing his composure, and neither one of them can afford that.

"Yeah, I am," he finally agrees, voice cracking slightly as he settles back once again. "So go brush your teeth so all that sugar doesn't rot them out of your big head."

Sam groans, laughing softy as he flops over further into the pillow, shuffling into a more lying down position and dragging the blanket up over his shoulder.

"Noooo," he whines, good naturedly. "Tired and comfortable."

Dean laughs and shakes his head as he gently nudges the kid towards the end of his own side of the bed.

"You literally just promised to keep doing what I tell you. Like... _seconds_ ago," he teases. "That's gotta be some new kind of record."

"It's my birthday," Sam sleepily reminds him, sounding like a petulant five year old as he doggedly refuses to move. "I should get what I want."

Dean smiles and sighs, giving in as he feels Sam's pressure against the pillow wedged between them grow heavier with impending slumber.

"Yeah, you should, buddy," he whispers fondly. "Happy Birthday, little brother."

Sam was already asleep by the time the words came out of his mouth, and the rest of the house was empty. So there were no witnesses to question the authenticity of Dean's man card for taking a few minutes to enjoy the comfort of his little brother warm and resting easily against him.

Knowing that no matter what the future was bringing them, these calm and pleasant days were numbered.

/

Unsurprisingly, Sam's physics test went as well as he expected it to, because he always studied hard and made sure that he was prepared. Just because his college applications were processed and he had his acceptances in hand, there was no reason to start slacking off now.

Especially since he had been informed that he was in the running for class valedictorian. A decision that would be made once all final exams had been graded in the next few weeks.

So far, the day had been filled with friends and acquaintances wishing him a happy birthday as he strolled through the hallways between classes. Holy Rosary always included a list of people celebrating their special day in the morning announcements, and Sam had been pleasantly surprised by how many of his fellow students had sought him out to express their good wishes.

He was really going to miss this place, and the friends he had made here.

For the first time, he felt warmly nostalgic when thinking about his waning days at a school. It was a world away from the bitterness, resentfulness and melancholy that he had experienced towards the end of his stay at the multitude of other schools he had attended over the years.

The difference was that his time at Holy Rosary was coming to a natural end. Not one where he was being pulled away, unwilling and not ready to sever his ties to the people he had become friendly with. It was an entirely different sensation, and one that, although painful, was much easier to process and live with, because this is what was meant to happen as kids grew up.

Standing at his locker at the end of the school day, he sorted the items that he would need at home later and loaded his backpack. Alex had already been through to kiss him goodbye as she zipped off to meet up with the rest of the drama club in the theater for an hour of rehearsal.

Sam should have been joining her, since he had signed up to run tech for the spring production of _Oklahoma_ , but Dean had been very clear that he was picking Sam up after classes to run some _birthday_ errands. The club didn't necessarily need him there today anyway. His job was simple and didn't require a lot of practice time.

Not like when he had actually acted in _Our Town_ over the winter. He'd enjoyed the acting part, but even Sam Winchester had his limits on his willingness to embarrass himself for the sake of art.

Volunteering to run tech was a concession he made because he was still trying to make it up to his girlfriend for being away during spring break, even though she had been very understanding. However, as much as Alex and the rest of his friends meant to him, Hell would _freeze over_ before anyone would see Sam either sing or dance on stage.

Dean had also made arrangements with Sam's track coach to get him excused that afternoon, despite the fact that they had a meet on Thursday which would normally require his attendance at practice. He didn't know what his big brother said to convince the usually unswerving athletic director, but it must have been truly convincing to not cost Sam his place on the team for competition day.

By three, he was dutifully waiting at the drop off curb when the Impala's growl echoed in the distance, growing ever more curious as to their destination. Dean hadn't specified what they were doing. Only insisting that Sam make sure that he had his actual license on him and to be ready to go.

When the black beauty pulled up and Sam climbed inside, Dean was smiling mischievously but adamantly refused to give a single hint regarding his mysterious plans, so Sam just shook his head, smiled and went with it.

It was usually better to just let Dean have his way when he got like this.

Apparently, as Sam was about to find out, Dean had taken it into his head to make sure that his little brother did everything he now legally _could_ or was _required_ to do at age eighteen.

The first stop was at the local DMV, where Sam was directed to fill out the form allowing him to register to vote. Then on to the nearest post office, where he fulfilled his civic duty and registered for the Selective Service, brushing aside a momentary pang of disappointment that it should be his veteran father that was there with him for this one.

It had been on John's eighteenth birthday that he had enlisted in the Corps.

They hadn't heard from Dad in a few days and, somewhat shamefully, Sam wasn't entirely sure he even wanted his father around today. Which was a lot like it had been last year when Sam was still harboring a ton of resentment over their gypsy lifestyle, and that idea only made him even more sad than he already was over the situation.

Sam was sure now where he stood in his father's eyes. Just another grunt for the Winchester Army, homeless and living on the road. An asset to be used for research and grave digging while Dad hunted down anything he could find.

It apparently didn't matter to his father what Sam wanted in life. Or Dean either, to be honest. John Winchester always got what he wanted, and what he wanted was his sons tied to him and doing his bidding regardless of any dreams they might have for themselves.

As far as Sam was concerned, Dad was in for a disappointment this time.

Sam wasn't planning on going along with his father's agenda of hitting the road again after graduation, but he would keep his mouth shut and toe the line until it was time for his college classes to start. He had every intention of going to the university in Sioux Falls whether his father liked it or not.

Short of holding him hostage, there wasn't much Dad could do about it because, pretty soon, Sam would be financially independent enough to take care of himself.

Pulling him out of these troubling thoughts was another quick stop, this time at a convenience store where Dean gave him twenty bucks to buy lottery tickets and a pack of cigarettes. Only to immediately take the cigarettes from him, throw them out and threaten to kick Sam's ass every day for a week if Dean ever caught him buying another one.

Silly, weird, protective big brother.

After that stop, Sam had wrongfully assumed they were finally headed back to the school to collect the Camaro when Dean suddenly pulled into the parking lot of a national bank. Sam gave his brother a confused look, even as Dean hopped out with a smile and beckoned Sam to follow him.

The end of the business day was approaching fast, and the cool streamlined interior of the bank was empty except for employees. As they walked silently across a thick pile carpet, Dean seemed to already know where he was going, heading straight to the back of the large room and throwing a thousand watt smile at the well dressed, gray haired lady sitting behind a large mahogany desk.

She politely invited them to sit down, and when Sam was slow to join his brother in one of the plush armchairs in front of the desk, Dean had grinned impishly before turning serious.

"You're an adult now, Sammy. You need a bank account."

Eyes widening in surprise, Sam was overcome with wonderment and emotion that his brother would even give something like that thought. Too used to their father's well worn admonition about how the family needed to stay off the grid and not leave behind traces of their identities.

Of course Sam had already been thinking about opening an account.

Along with his arrangements for school, he had begun to make meticulous plans for the care and upkeep of the house when that had still been a possibility before his father's dismissal of the idea. But in all that time, it had never occurred to him that his _live on the cusp of the law_ brother would care whether or not Sam could legally write checks for expenses in a normal life.

And he _certainly_ didn't expect the five hundred dollars in cash that Dean passed over to him to make his first deposit.

"What?" Dean had asked, incredulously. "Did you think I forgot to give you a gift?"

The generosity of the gift and the enormity behind the gesture rendered Sam almost completely mute, and it took some effort and assistance to help him fill out the forms. They left the bank twenty minutes later with Sam the proud new owner of a checkbook, with a bank card on the way in the mail, and a deeper appreciation of his brother.

/

It took Sam a minute to realize that things were different than usual when he got home after picking up his car from the school lot.

At first he had wondered why Dean didn't wait for him to follow the Impala home, instead zooming out of the parking lot and leaving Sam running a few minutes behind. But as he made his way into the kitchen at the back at the house, Sam heard voices in the backyard.

Apparently, while the brothers had been out and about doing birthday errands, Alex and the other girls from their study group had taken it upon themselves to go out all with decorations for the birthday barbecue.

Sam grinned to himself and blushed, feeling all warm and fuzzy for his thoughtful girlfriend and friends who clearly had abandoned their afternoon activities to create such a fun party atmosphere.

Somehow they had managed to hang long swags of strung white party lights and small glass lanterns from the tree branches that draped over the two borrowed, long rectangular folding tables where they would eat. Both tables were heavy with decorations of a Hawaiian theme. Fake mini palm tree blow ups and green plastic grass table skirts. Colorful plates and napkins and little plastic tiki totems filled with Sam's favorite sweets. Another small table with coconut cups for drinks and scattered silk flower leis for the guests to wear.

Uncle Bobby and Dean had ransacked one of the outbuildings at the salvage yard and found a large grill. Dean had spent the past two days scrubbing it down and refinishing it, and now it stood gleaming off the side, heating up and getting ready for all the meat that the boys had marinating in the fridge.

Sam loved it all.

Within the next half hour, the rest of the guests had arrived. All members of Sam's study group and all well familiar and welcome in the Winchester house, so everyone felt at home. Dean had rigged up extra speakers for Sam's CD player and there was festive luau music playing while the kids started on the bowls of snacks before the real food was put on to cook.

The girls had mixed up some alcohol free cocktails, and everyone was lounging around on blankets in the yard while Dean and Uncle Bobby prepped the food in the kitchen to bring out for the grill. Sam had wanted real kabobs, and Dean was patiently threading meat and veggies on sticks for fourteen kids. Of course there were burgers and sausages too, because Dean didn't share his brother's opinion that everyone ate weird shit like teriyaki chicken and grilled cherry tomatoes.

Alex was taking charge of the drink mixing, and when they started to run out of ice, she sidled over to Sam and sat on his lap, curling her arms around his neck and whispering in his ear.

"Ice, ice, baby," she cooed, eliciting a groan at the terribly dated reference from her adoring boyfriend, but then Sam just rolled his eyes and kissed her before dutifully hauling himself up and heading into the house.

If he hadn't been moving so slowly, he might have unknowingly interrupted the conversation taking place in the kitchen.

"You can't be serious, Dean."

It was Uncle Bobby's voice, chastising his big brother. A tone that was rarely used by the old salvage man to either of the Winchester brothers. Still hidden by the entryway of the mud room, Sam halted his steps and pressed himself flush to the wall, intent on finding out what was going on.

"I am," Dean answer firmly. "I've never been more serious in my life."

Sam could hear Uncle Bobby sigh heavily, and from the rustling of pans, Dean was moving away from him.

"You've been white knuckling it all year, boy. Don't tell me you haven't. I can see it in your eyes."

"So?" Dean answered candidly. "I've been managing, haven't I? I'm guessing I can keep doing it a while longer if I need to."

"Wanna tell me how that's fair to you?" Uncle Bobby asked, his voice heavy with disapproval.

"I'm _fine_ , Bobby," Dean insisted, starting to lose his temper. " _I'm_ fine. _We're_ fine, and it's gonna stay that way as long as I can help it."

"Your daddy isn't just gonna sit back and let this happen, Dean."

Dean chuckled humorlessly and Sam heard a pan drop on the table.

"He's not gonna have a choice," Dean stated. "Sam's idea was a fair compromise. I can't help it if Dad couldn't see that. So, he either goes along with it, or I'm out."

Sam couldn't help the sharp intake of breath he reflexively took, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to silence any other noise coming out before he was found eavesdropping.

 _His brother couldn't have meant what it sounded like, could he?_

"So, what?" Uncle Bobby asked disbelievingly. "You just gonna sit back around here and fix cars while John goes out and hunts alone? You really think you can handle that? 'Cause I know how hard it's been for you to sit on the sidelines since you boys moved here."

There was a moment of tense silence while Sam held his breath, waiting for the answer with every bit of anticipation as Bobby surely was.

"If that's what it takes," Dean said finally.

" _Bull_. You're a hunter, boy. I don't much like it, but I've seen it in your eyes since the first time Johnny gave you a gun. It means everything to ya."

Another pause. Another deep breath that Sam immediately recognized as his brother.

"Sam means more," Dean stated in a tone that didn't invite question. "If Dad backs off and agrees to let Sam stay here and go to school, I'll head back out full time with him. If he doesn't, then I'm done. I'm just done with it all."

"You really mean that, don't cha?"

"Yes I do. I don't want to give my dad an ultimatum, but I will if I have to. It's that simple."

There was more puttering going on, and Sam carefully started to move back towards the back door when Bobby's voice stopped him again.

"So when ya tellin' him?"

"Who, Dad? I'm waiting for Sammy's graduation. He won't start planning anything for us until after that, and maybe shit will calm down before then where I don't gotta force his hand."

Sam couldn't hear anymore.

Could not make himself listen to his big brother's selfless capitulation for even more more second. Moving silently, he slipped out the back door and leaned against the side of the house as he struggled to calm his breathing.

Dean was going to do again. Fall on his sword like he always did and take the brunt of any fallout from their father. Sacrifice, so that once again Sam got what he wanted, regardless of the cost to Dean.

Could he possibly be serious about giving up the hunt? Just so Sam got to stay here and go to college? Dad would absolutely flip his shit if his firstborn son presented him with that kind of ultimatum.

And what about the search for Mom's killer? Sam knew without a doubt that Dean was just as dedicated to finding that son of a bitch and ending its pathetic life as Dad was. Could he really just sit back and let it go?

The plain and simple answer was _Yes_.

There wasn't a single doubt in Sam's mind that Dean would do exactly that if he had to. If Dad refused to accept the terms of Sam's compromise about school, Dean would grab Sam and walk away from the hunt.

Maybe it would have been different a year ago.

Before they spent time living as a normal family again. Before the brothers settled down and grew closer.

Because, even though Dean was always generous and protective, this past year and everything they had gone through to get here and maintain their lives in this house had fundamentally changed both of them.

Sam could see his brother beginning to question some of their father's orders. Something that would have never happened in the past. He also knew that, while Dean was jittery about not being actively on the hunt with Dad, time away from The Life had also given his brother another perspective on how their lives could be different.

Just like Sam himself could finally begin to accept that the work his father did was important.

Seeing it from the protection of safe and stable walls of their house, it had been easier to find an appreciation for the sacrifices that John made to save others. Not mired down in resentment over what those sacrifice did to Sam personally, he was finding himself understanding more and more of the good that their family did in the world.

If he had to be honest with himself, it was hard to admit how selfishly he had acted in the past. Yes, the hunter lifestyle was a difficult one to live, and one that Sam didn't think he would ever be truly comfortable living. But Dean wasn't wrong all the times that he impressed upon Sam the notion that their knowledge and training gave them an obligation to do whatever they could to help people.

Sam's big brother _lived_ to help others.

Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to see people walk away from a bad situation because Dean's dedication and talents had neutralized a threat.

Unfairly, people often looked at Sam's brother and just saw a snarky, leather wearing thug, and they were too judgmental and shallow to look beyond the facade and see the good, kind and decent man that had risked his own life a thousand times over to save strangers in need without ever expecting thanks.

They had no idea that there were Dean Winchesters in the world that gave all they ever had to give to make sure that others could sleep at night. Running _into_ the scary places, instead of fleeing. Fighting and hurting and bleeding, so that others didn't need to.

That was another reason why Sam hadn't been planning on leaving it entirely.

He was sure that, besides being an eventual avenue for legal work, one of his other places in the The Life was as a researcher. Because for one, he was damn good at it. Even his father grudgingly admitted that on several occasions, and Sam was more than willing to arm his family with as much knowledge as he could before they put their lives on the line for strangers.

But Dad had thrown Sam's offer in his face. Without even the barest of considerations. Treating Sam's attempt to find his place in the hunting world as inadequate and unsubstantial.

And now Dean was making plans to walk away from something that had always been important to him.

Just because Sam had made his own plans without first discussing them with either member of his family. Without regard to how Dad or Dean would really feel about it. Doing _exactly_ what had always frustrated Sam about how their father ran things.

Keeping his family on a need to know basis.

Which Sam now realized had really been one of the most selfish things that he could have done, because Dean had been sacrificing everything he had for _Sam_ since day one, and he had caused his brother real hurt by not choosing to confide in him sooner.

After listening to how Dean was once again planning to do whatever it took to make his little brother happy, now Sam was left wondering if it was finally his turn to be the one that gave up what he wanted if it meant ensuring Dean's happiness for a change.

While his mind tried to process these thoughts, he caught a glimpse of Alex in the corner of his eye and she was frowning at him, looking a little worried, and then he remembered she had sent him on an errand. He managed to throw a small smile at her that he didn't really feel at the moment and also reminded himself that he had a backyard full of friends who were there just to spend time with him, so he really needed to get his game face on.

Somehow he managed to compose himself enough to head back inside, determined to ignore what he had just heard and act normally until he had time to process everything.

And therefore was completely unprepared to find his father in the kitchen alongside Dean and Uncle Bobby.

As soon as Sam stepped foot in the kitchen, he almost ran directly into the broad frame of John Winchester.

Actually seeing his father made his breath hitch, because he had just about convinced himself that Dad was going to let this day pass without any notice. Maybe as some sort of penance for Sam for having the audacity to buck his father's commands and dare to take a stand in regards to his own life.

Of course Dad would want to punish his youngest son's impudence and insubordination, and surely he must know that even his hot headed and angry boy wanted to hear his father's voice on a special day.

Sam was still incredibly hurt by his father's actions and words. There were no two ways about that, and truthfully, the youngest Winchester was pretty sure that a part of him would never truly be able to forgive John for the cold and callous way he had reacted to what would be exciting news for most parents.

It didn't mean that Sam hadn't been relentlessly checking his phone all day long. Surreptitiously stealing glances at the caller list and feeling a sharp stab of hurt and sadness at not seeing his father show up. Dad wasn't normally around for their birthdays, it wasn't unusual at all, and even when he was, he was working and not really paying attention to them for the most part.

But even when he wasn't with them, he _always_ called, and every time Sam had looked at his phone and didn't see any evidence that Dad was attempting to wish him a good day, he felt like a small, insecure child still desperate for his father's attention, and that had made him feel even shittier than he already did about the entire situation.

 _Pathetic_ even.

Why should he care whether or not Dad called? Wasn't he the one that had completely ignored his father on that last terrible day after their argument? He had been right to do it, because his father was completely unreasonable and a controlling ass and Sam wasn't a little boy anymore, and he didn't need his father's permission or pride or recognition.

At all. _Really_. Right?

Didn't mean Sam didn't _want_ any of those things. So what did that really say about him?

Like a well muscled sentry, Dad just stood there, seeming tired and also a little sad.

It was a warm day, and John was only dressed in his USMC t-shirt and jeans instead of his normal layers that defined his time on a hunt, when you never knew what you might be encountering. Clean shaven, because when the weather got warmer, the thick black beard was stifling.

Strangely, Sam couldn't help noticing for the first time exactly how _young_ his father could look.

Standing casually next to Dean, John could have been mistaken for an older brother and not a father, and Sam had a flash of painful realization about just how much their dad had been through in his relatively short life.

Sam's age when he went to a hellish war where he lost good friends and maybe even a part of himself as well among the swampy grasslands. Younger than Dean when he met the love of his life, and just a few years older when Dean was born.

When Sam had been younger, he hadn't really given much thought to all the curve balls that were thrown at his father's direction. That when John was just a little older than Sam was right now, all he had wanted was to work in his stepfather's garage and marry the girl he loved.

He'd never asked for the nightmare that had been thrust upon him.

A thousand thoughts flooded Sam's brain as he just stood there gaping, ignoring Dean's worried stare. His big brother probably nervous that Sam was going to start another fight the minute he opened his mouth. Uncle Bobby quietly excusing himself to get out of blast range of World War Three most likely gearing up in the Winchester's kitchen.

Maybe Dad understood the emotional torrent that was ravaging its way through Sam's entire body at the moment, leaving him doubting and confused.

One second furious with his father and wanting nothing to do with the man, and then the very next missing him terribly and desperately wanting them just to get along for once.

Angry and resentful over Dad's lack of enthusiasm for Sam's hopes, but yet still just a son that loved his father, even when they were fighting.

Whatever Dad saw on Sam's face must have given him a little clue. Which shouldn't have surprised Sam, because if it was one thing his father could do, it was read people. So when his father walked over to him slowly and pulled him into a hug, Sam found himself returning it with only the tiniest hesitation.

A second later, Sam was holding on tight and burying his face in Dad's shoulder, willing to forget, at least for a moment, that things were still raw and hurtful and unresolved between them, but that tomorrow was another day to worry about that. And his big bad hunter of a father was home with them safe, when he could just as easily be dead somewhere, or bleeding and alone with no one to help him or even begin to look for him.

There would be time to finish their fight and figure out plans for the future but, for now, all Sam wanted to do was feel his dad's arms around him and know, just for that moment, that maybe, just maybe, his father cared for Sam more than he was disappointed in him.

Sam would always remember that birthday party.

Things were still tense between him and his father, but they had called a truce long enough for Sam to introduce John to all of the friends he had made during his year in Sioux Falls. Sam's friends were curious about his mysterious father and, after meeting him in person, maybe also a little awed and a little intimidated as well.

He watched Dad and Dean co-man the grill with the easy back and forth that always seemed to exist with them.

Dad could have just been another neighborhood father that day with the way he cooked and joked around with Sam's guests, and for a moment Sam remembered that once upon a time his father _had been_ a suburban dad before his life was taken from him in an instant.

Sam sat in a circle of his friends as they admired the shiny new _Dell Inspiron_ laptop that his father had given him, along with buttery soft brown leather messenger bag to carry it in. What they didn't know was that, inside the bag, was also a new title for the Camaro that had Sam's name on it next to his father's. Officially giving him partial ownership of Cherry now that he was a legal eighteen.

Dad was trying his best. He really was, and although Sam was still deeply wounded from their fight, he loved his father more than he hated him.

And Dean?

Well, Dean was the person that Sam loved more than anyone else in the world.

And it might just be time that someone put Dean first for a change.

/

Sam was a good runner.

There was no doubt about it.

Not that John should doubt it, considering how much time he insisted that his kids run on a regular basis, as well all the times that he made them do extra miles and laps to curb poor behavior.

His sons were fucking _professionals_ when it came to running.

It should have brought John such incredible pride and joy to sit in the stands of Holy Rosary's athletic field on a sunny Thursday afternoon and watch his strong and fast kid tear up the track in the 1600m race that he was currently dominating.

The _metric mile_.

Even John knew enough about high school track events to know that Sam's specialty was one of the hardest. It took both strength and speed to cover the distance, maintain a steady pace, and still have enough of a reserve kick to put a runner over the edge at the end to win.

And Sam was currently leaving his competition in the dust.

Dean was on his feet loudly cheering in his brother's direction. John couldn't help noticing all the young women and even some of the moms in the stand throwing lustful appreciative glances at his handsome son. Truthfully, quite of a few of them had come his way as well.

When he made the decision to spend some time at Sammy's school, John had eschewed his normal attire and made an effort to look like a respectable dad instead of hardened hunter. Noticing that Dean took more care with his appearance before leaving, John had donned his white button down shirt, sleeves rolled up and showing off his muscular forearms, as well as his black dress pants and shoes.

Once in a while he still remembered how to look nice, and wanted his kid to be as proud of his old man as he was of Sammy.

John _was_ proud of his son. Of course he was, whether or not Sam chose to believe it.

And if it wasn't for the conversation he had with Dean earlier that day, he would also be on his feet screaming encouragement at his kid as Sam ate up the laps.

It had been such a casual remark really.

After talking to the boys at Christmas about John's love of baseball and captaining his high school team, Sammy had seemed interested in joining the team of his own school this spring. John had actually thought it was such a sure thing that he hadn't even bothered to ask his boys about it. Just assuming, wrongly, that his youngest was spending time on the school's diamond.

So when he caught Dean changing this afternoon to head out to the school to root Sam on, he had been more than a little surprised to find out that it was at a track meet and not at a ballgame.

He asked Dean what the change of heart had been, and it had taken his firstborn several uncomfortable seconds before he finally admitted that Sam _did_ try out for the baseball team, but he wasn't given a position. The school's team was highly competitive, having won many state competitions over the years. There were several students who relied on their places on the team for college scholarships, and only the very best were chosen.

Sam simply didn't have a lot of experience playing the game.

He was athletic and coordinated, but except for a few weeks in gym class at schools here and there, Sammy never got the opportunity to hones his skills enough to be competitive.

Dean's remark wasn't meant to wound his dad, or cast any sort of aspersion at John for being responsible for Sam's lack of talent, but that is exactly how the guilty father felt.

Because once upon a time, John had looked at his baby son and dreamed of all the great times they would have together as he taught Sammy to pitch and hit. Dean had already been playing T-ball when Sammy was born, under his father's careful instruction and tutelage. The two of them spent many hours together in the backyard of the house in Lawrence with John throwing soft pitches into his four year old's tiny glove.

And John had wanted that for Sammy too.

Even going so far as to insist on buying a baseball theme mobile for Sam's nursery. Every night either John or Mary would wind up the soft tinkling music in Sam's crib and the baby would be mesmerized by the dancing shapes of plush little bats and mitts and balls circling overhead.

Then the fire happened, and John's dreams of playing ball with his baby boy went up in a wisp of smoke along with the mobile.

So, Sam never learned to play baseball, because his father had never taken the time to teach him.

But Sam did know how to _run_.

Sitting in the bleachers, John had to ask himself if it was really any wonder that Sam was threatening to run far and fast from his family.

Because, after all, his father _had_ taken the time to teach him _that._

/

"Dean!"

It was a desperate, pitiful cry from Sam's bedroom, but it brought a huge smile to the older brother's face as he stopped sorting laundry in the mud room and turned to race up the stairs, taking two at a time. Sammy was standing in front of his mirror, flushed, overwhelmed and struggling with the scrap of pink fabric dangling from his neck.

"I can't figure out how to tighten this stupid thing," Sam grumped, shoving his bow tie at his brother's waiting hands.

Dean could have cracked a joke at his little brother's expense, seeing as how the ostentatious bow tie was a simple pre-tied adjustable that came with the tux rental, but the poor kid was one second away from hyperventilating from nerves, so he calmly got it fastened around Sam's neck instead.

"Relax, Fabio," he soothed, "You're gonna be one sharp dressed man at that prom. After all, you share my awesome genes."

The smile Sam gave him was forced, and more than a little harried, but at least the kid was breathing again.

"Told ya she was gonna make you wear pink, dude," Dean snorted, as he smoothed the shirt collar and grabbed the matching pink vest that Alex assured Sam was the exact color of her dress.

"Ugh, don't remind me," Sam moaned, clenching his eyes tight against the offensiveness of the bright pastel he was being forced to wear all night.

Following Dean's direction, Sam obediently held out his arms behind him and let his brother help him into the vest before doing up the buttons.

"At least the tux itself is black," Dean pointed out helpfully. "You can probably ditch the tie and vest after photos are taken."

"Yeah, sure," Sam scoffed, giving his brother an _are you kidding me_ look, as he rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You've met my girlfriend, right? You really think she's gonna let me off that easy?"

"No, probably not, Dean agreed finally, turning around to grab the suit jacket next.

Once Sam had his jacket on and used a brush in a futile effort to tame his unruly hair, he turned to get his brother's opinion.

"Well? How bad?"

Again, there was the perfect opening to take a brotherly jab at the kid, but Dean couldn't do it.

Sammy really looked good.

Better than good.

He looked _great_.

Tall, handsome and grown up, yet somehow still boyishly adorable.

Looking doubtful of his brother's assurances, and horrifically still insecure, because there were more years of awkward ugly duckling in his past than smooth male model, and Dean wasn't going to give the kid even the tiniest reason to doubt that he was going to do the Winchester name proud at the prom.

"You look terrific, kiddo," Dean answered him honestly. "I hope Alex is prepared to defend your honor against the flock of chicks that's gonna be chasing your ass all night."

Sam huffed, but he smiled shyly, ducking his head away and turning to give his hair another go. Dean watched him carefully, searching for another sign or two that his little brother was planning on doing what Dean suspected he was planning tonight.

All week long, Sam had been asking tentative questions and dropping small hints that he was considering making his prom night _the night_ , without actually coming right out and saying as much. Sammy was too private and too much of a gentleman to talk about anything that intimate, even with his brother, but clearly the kid still needed a little bit of guidance.

So, Dean had answered all his questions, being as encouraging and supportive as possible, without teasing him or pushing him. Sammy wouldn't be rushed, he knew that for a fact, and if it happened tonight, it would be as a result of careful consideration and thought.

Didn't mean that Dean wasn't going to give him a brotherly nudge in the right direction.

"You know," he started casually, "I was thinking that I would stay over at Bobby's place tonight. That Cougar I'm rebuilding is giving me a shit ton of trouble, and I'm behind. Might put in a few extra hours since you're gonna be out."

As he suspected, Sam's eyes flew open wide and the brush tumbled from a suddenly clumsy hand and clattered to the floor.

 _Yep_.

"And Dad's still in Georgia for a few more days, at least," he continued, picking the brush up and handing it back to his now _deer-in-the-headlights_ brother. "You don't mind having the place to yourself, do you?"

Sam's breathing had skipped to a decidedly nervous pace as he desperately tried to act cool and not give anything away.

"No... _no_ , that...that's fine," he stuttered, blinking rapidly and unable to look his brother in eye. "I'll be fine."

Dean smirked and bit back a laugh, clapping his little brother on the back.

"Good to know," he teased. "I'll probably be home by lunchtime tomorrow. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam nodded, swallowing repeatedly to clear the sudden clog in his throat.

Still acting casual, Dean brushed off some imaginary lint from the back of Sam's suit jacket. "You got everything you need, kiddo? Cash? Keys? Corsage?"

Sam nodded jerkily as he grabbed his wallet and keys from the top of the dresser and gave his relatively clean room a more thorough inspection than he might have under other circumstances.

"Yeah, corsage is in the fridge," he replied nervously. "I'm good, I think."

"Then you better get going," Dead advised, steering him towards the stairs. "You're already late."

Taking a quick glance at his watch, Sam rapidly picked up the pace, and dashed towards the stairs to charge down to the kitchen.

" _Shit. Shit. Shit!_ Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I just _did_ ," Dean protested, laughing at his brother running around like a headless chicken. "No speeding, Turbo Racer! She can wait a few minutes for you to get there in one piece."

Sam grabbed the clear plastic container with the white and pink orchids out of the fridge and glanced around, frowning as if he was forgetting something and then getting frustrated by not remembering what it was.

"Sammy, you're stalling," Dean advised, pushing his little brother closer to the front door.

At the last second, Sam turned around with hopeful, pleading eyes. "Oh! Um..two o'clock tonight? Maybe? _Please please please_?"

Just because Dean wasn't going to be home, didn't mean that Sam wasn't expected to follow his curfew. Even if he _was_ just informed that the house would be empty all night like Sam had been hoping for all week.

"Nah," Dean shook his head. "No curfew tonight. Prom only comes around once, and you're a big kid now, remember?"

Sam's mile wide grin could have lit up the world, and it was more than enough to warm Dean down to his very soul to see the kid so happy.

"Just do me a favor," he continued seriously. "Text me if you're gonna be anywhere other than the school or home, okay? And it's cool if you have a _friend_ over to stay the night afterwards, as long as it's just _one_ friend."

"Yeah, okay, Dean," Sam promised, with a sheepish little grin on his face. "I promise."

"Good," Dean nodded, grabbing Sam by the shoulder and growing serious for a moment. "Nothing has to happen tonight if you're not ready. You hear me? No one's keeping score."

The not so subtle reference wasn't lost on Sammy, and he blushed and nodded his head shyly, smiling with all the dimples.

"Alright, get outta here, already," Dean laughed, shoving his little brother out the door, and watched as Sammy, looking super sharp and way older than possible, climbed into the Camaro with a jaunty wave goodbye and took off.

Dean felt a flush of pride as he headed back into the house and strode towards the mud room. Sammy had grown up _so good_ , and the big brother wanted to claim at least a little credit for that.

He pulled the clean, pleasantly scented sheets out of the dryer and added the next load. Sammy didn't have any idea that his brother was determinedly laundering all the extra bedding in the house. Grabbing the basket of fresh sheets, he made his way back upstairs and began to strip Sam's bed and remake it.

Dean had good memories of his first time with a girl, resulting ass whipping aside.

Although he had never seen Beth again, and now knew from Pastor Jim that she was in the wind, he had thoroughly enjoyed his time with her. Passing such a milestone in the backseat of Baby was perfectly fine by him.

 _Preferable_ , even, because most of his really happy memories took place in the Impala, so it was only natural that it was where he lost his virginity, and had subsequently enjoyed the company of several young ladies since.

As much as Sammy loved his Camaro, having sex in the back seat is not what Dean's sensitive little brother would want for his own first experience, and not just because of the precarious logistics it would require to get the little Sasquatch to fit back there.

Sammy was much more shy and conservative, and he would want the encounter to be as special as possible. Intimate and private, and not out in the open where anyone could come across him and his girl. Dean was happy to give them the privacy and protection of their house, if tonight was the night that Sam chose to be with Alex.

He knew that Sam wouldn't come right out and ask, because there was no way the kid would share the details of his hopes even in a quest to get Dean out of the way. But Sam did make an overly casual mention that Alex had arranged with Taylor, the girl from the study group, to be her alibi for the night so that Alex's parents weren't expecting her home.

Obviously, Dean had met Alex's parents, since his little brother wouldn't be allowed to spend time at their house without them being investigated. Knowing them, Dean had more faith in the Logans than to think they would fall for such a thin ploy on prom night, but apparently they had given consent. So they either were genuinely in denial over their daughter's burgeoning promiscuity, or they knew, and were giving tacit permission anyway.

In any case, the writing was on the wall that Alex could spend the night with Sam if she chose to.

Dean smirked as he finished smoothing on the new sheets before going out to the linen closet in the hallway and grabbing an armful of extra pillows. He covered them with clean cases and added them to the bed, fluffing and plumping to make it look cozy as possible.

Many women had enticed Dean into their beds over the years. Some quickly, with no finesse or preamble if it was a simple bar hook up but, occasionally, he was invited over when there had been more time to plan a romantic rendezvous. So he knew more than his share about creating the appropriate enticing ambiance.

From his room he collected two overly full shopping bags and brought them back into Sammy's room. Leaving them on the dresser with a note written with big, bold letters

 _ATMOSPHERE SAMMY!_

In the bags, Sam would find enough vanilla almond candles _Sam's favorite scent, the big girl_ to burn the house down, along with CDs of soft music for the player on the dresser, and a large bottle of essential oil bubble bath.

This was all a trick Dean had learned from Rhonda Hurley a few years ago, and it was apparently convincing enough to get him to agree to wear her pink panties that night. A little secret he wouldn't be sharing with his brother in this lifetime.

Dean wasn't creepy enough or sappy enough to arrange the candles himself, because he was Sam's big brother, not his pimp, but he knew the kid well enough to know that Sammy would charge up here to at least make sure it was all tidy before bringing his girl up for some romance. He would have time to set his own stage if it came to that point.

A quick glance in Sam's sock drawer reconfirmed the presence of the box of condoms from Easter and, reassured that all would go smoothly, Dean made his way downstairs to do a quick tidying around the house before he left for Bobby's place twenty minutes later.

A huge grin on his face as he locked the door behind him.

/

The candles were flickering in the darkness from their positions spread out around his room, and the heavy aroma of vanilla almond had penetrated deep into Sam's nasal passage as he lay in the nest of pillows with his arms wrapped tight around Alex's slim body.

An unfamiliar piece of piano music played quietly from the dresser in the background, as Sam gently stroked the softness of Alex's bare arm and she lay with her head against his chest, breathing slow deep breaths across his skin. He could tell by the relatively tense way she was holding herself that she wasn't sleeping.

Sam hadn't quite known exactly what to expect from his first sexual experience.

He had grown up in some pretty shady places. Heard lots of people through thin shared walls making various degrees of happy noises that caused him to jam a pillow over his ears.

Dean was blunt enough about his own conquests to give a fairly clear picture. No gory details that would require Sam to scrub his brain to get it clean again, but enough to figure out the basics.

Sam even managed to catch the occasional viewing of _Casa Erotica_ if Dean had purchased the full twenty-four hour rental period during a school day before he headed out to the bars, leaving behind a curious and horny little brother to sneak a peek.

A good student and fervent reader, Sam had also had more than one occasion to come across rather graphic descriptions of literary interludes between the characters. While he knew that a fair amount of artistic license would be taken by authors, he had to admit that the passionate, flowery language used when detailing the encounters had given him a false sense of expectations for his own.

The first word coming to mind when thinking about his time with Alex being... _awkward_.

It was well and truly _awkward_.

The prom itself had been a really fun time. Unlike his fraudulently hyped popularity at the Homecoming dance, neither Sam nor Alex made the Prom court, and that was perfectly fine with both of them. Sam had happily distanced himself from the shallow atmosphere of the popular kids clique months earlier, finding good friends in his normal comfort zone of academics and arts.

With their group of friends surrounding them, the young couple had spent several pleasurable hours dancing and hanging out in the garishly decorated gym of the school. Alex had looked absolutely stunning in a strapless pink gown. Lacy and delicate and flowing softly in all the right places. Sam was bursting with pride to hold her in his arms as they swirled around the dance floor.

Afterwards, a large crowd of them had gone out to eat at one of the trendy chain restaurants that stayed open late on the weekends. As promised, Sam texted his brother his location and received one back simply stating that Dean hoped he was enjoying himself and that he would see him tomorrow.

When it was time to leave, Sam nervously asked Alex if she wanted to stay over with him for the night. Although they had not really discussed details in full, it was more or less understood and agreed on between them prior to prom night that this was something they both wanted if they could arrange a location.

Sam had been pretty confident that Dean would catch on to the hints he had been dropping, but he had been getting nervous when Dean waited until just before he left for prom to confirm that they could have the house. Although honestly, he had been more worried about getting consent to stay out later.

Because, _yeah_ , Sam's life was weird enough that going out to an unapproved location and breaking curfew was a bigger deal than having sex with his girlfriend in their empty house.

Getting back to the Winchester's home, the two teens spent a while on the couch engaged in the same activities that had been so bluntly interrupted by John's unexpected arrival weeks prior. Eventually, Sam worked up the nerve to start hinting about going upstairs, and he gave Alex a moment to herself while he jogged up to his room to give it a good once over before he invited her up.

At first he had been absolutely _mortified_ by Dean's presumptuous preparations, but the more he thought about it, the more grateful he became.

Nervous and jittery, he had scurried around the room, placing and lighting candles as aesthetically as he possibly could, not really having any clue as to what he was doing. The bed didn't need anything, so that was awesome because he was harried enough as it was, and the less he needed to think about it, the better.

He threw in the first CD he grabbed, moved the condoms to the drawer in his nightstand in an effort to be smooth, and sat on the edge of the bed for a minute to calm his racing heartbeat.

Everything more of less went downhill after that.

At least in the hearts and flowers aspect of love making.

It was Alex's first time as well, and for all of her poise and confidence, she was a lot like Sam when it came to matters of physical intimacy.

Both of them were excessively nervous, and there was a lot of clumsy and inelegant fumbling to undress each other. The curious exploration of their partner's unfamiliar body becoming increasingly nerve wracking the less clothing they were wearing. Sam had never been nude in front of a girl before, and although he knew he had a nicely toned physique from all of his workout regimens, he was still extremely bashful about his looks.

Alex was exactly the same.

Petite and slightly curvy, and every bit as self conscious of her own desirability as she discretely tried to show interest in him without looking like a gawking pervert, because she honestly hadn't realized just how beautiful Sam really was under his school uniforms.

For his part, Sam just about finished the act all on his own before they even really got started when he got his first full look at her. He was grateful for the dim lighting from the candles for hiding both his overly eager arousal as well as all the questionable scars that he didn't want to particularly explain when expectations were already high enough.

The rest of the experience was definitely not romance novel material.

No amount of jittery wrangling from two graceless virgins was going to get a condom on Sam with any sort of erotic finesse to set the mood. _Technically_ they both knew what to do, but actually pulling it off without looking ridiculous was a whole other embarrassing matter.

It was a series of uncoordinated movements that were more frustrating than sensual. The act itself being surprisingly messy, unfortunately somewhat painful for Alex and, to Sam's utter humiliation, exceedingly _fast_.

Although she smiled and said all the right things afterwards, Sam was pretty sure that Alex hadn't really enjoyed most of it at all. So as he held her in his arms afterwards, his mind raced for inspiration on how to salvage their night together, because he truly cared for her and he was desperate to please her.

Not at all wanting her first time to be forever equated with a traumatizing experience.

Fairly sure that a suggestion of trying again would be understandably shot down, he remembered the bottle of bubble bath.

"How about a warm bath?" he suggested, leaning over slightly and nuzzling Alex's ear.

Alex sighed deeply and gratefully nodded her head, not trusting her voice to not break if she responded verbally. Things had not quite been what she expected, but it wasn't Sam's fault and she didn't want to upset him more than she probably already had.

A bath suddenly sounded heavenly.

"Okay," Sam whispered, kissing her head gently before slipping out of the bed and pulling on a pair of boxer briefs.

He may have just been intimate with Alex, and it was his own home that was empty except for the two of them, but Sam was still too painfully shy to make a nude post-coital strut around the house. He grabbed the bag that contained the bubble bath and some more of the candles before he strode into the bathroom.

Their tub was large and it took awhile to fill, and he intermittently added more bath gel to really get a good layer of foam floating on top. He scattered the candles around and lit them, hoping that this time the setting would be more pleasing. When the tub was full, he shut off the taps and then made his way back into his room where Alex was curled up in a sheet as she lay on the bed. Sam leaned over and kissed her softly, carefully scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bathroom.

He gently divested them of both the sheet and his boxers and he helped her into the tub, slipping in behind her to wrap his arms around her under the cover of lavender scented bubbles. For the first time that evening, she lay against him completely relaxed, and he let out a deep breath of relief. Finally truly comfortable, they stayed there, entwined in each other's arms and talking quietly, until the water began to cool.

She asked for a few private moments, and he obligingly extricated himself, wrapping a towel around his waist and leaving her alone inside the bathroom. Moving quickly, he grabbed another set of clean linens from the hall closet and quickly remade his bed, bundling the other sheets into a ball. He threw on his sleep pants and a t-shirt and ran downstairs with the used linen and threw it all in the washing machine and started a cycle.

Then he opened the freezer in the kitchen and took out a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream as well as a clean spoon from the dish drainer.

He wasn't sure if she had anything to sleep in with her, so he also pulled one of his new T-shirts from the DC trip from his dresser. Plain white cotton with a whimsical rendering of Matisse's _Open Window_ that was housed in the National Gallery. For some reason, Sam had found it fascinating because he had always had a thing about French Impressionist and post-Impressionist painters. He padded quietly back down to the bathroom, knocked, and told her through the door that he was leaving the shirt draped on the doorknob if she wanted it.

By the time she rejoined him, Sam had extinguished all the candles and had the room lit with the soft light of his nightstand lamp. He was already back in bed, sitting up against the headboard with the blanket drawn up around his waist. Alex was standing in the doorway, hair still damp from the bath and clad in his shirt, the hem falling down to mid thigh being the tiny thing she was.

She smiled, immensely relieved to see him so casually situated and clearly with no further expectations. It only took a moment for her to join him under the blanket, and he settled her comfortably under his right arm and handed her the ice cream and spoon. With his left hand, he reached over to the nightstand and picked up his dogeared copy of _Leaves of Grass_ , and they spent the next hour with Sam reading her poetry while she ate spoonfuls of mint chip.

Afterwards, Sam would always look back and think that it was really at the end of their evening together when they were truly intimate with each other.

/

When Mr. Hopkins summoned Sam to his office that afternoon, Sam was expecting to be told that he had, in fact, earned the valedictorian position. What he didn't expect was to have his world turned directly upside down.

"I just head from Stanford, Sam. They're giving you a full ride."

/


	14. June 2001

A/N As always, thank you for taking the time to read and review. Thanks to my member reviewers that I can PM with, and also to the guests that leave me helpful feedback. This chapter has a lot of questions and story lines left open. There will be more detail for some of these events coming in the next chapter. Hope you all continue to enjoy the story.

/

There's a kind of formula that teachers and advisers suggest when a student is writing a valedictory speech.

Starting with the usual platitudes extolling the virtues of inspirational influences on your academic career. The teachers or other instructors that pushed you and encouraged your educational ambitions. The fellow students that urged you forward with friendly and spirited competition.

Of course, you need to add the obligatory passages of pursuing success, as well as the self congratulatory phrases extolling your own lofty achievements and the hope of continuing on that worthy trajectory so that you can eventually use your education to modestly aspire to make the world a better place.

Maybe you talk about the loss of people along that way that have left enough of an impression upon you to work that much harder, and be that much better of a person, in order to do justice to their memory. Not that it really matters whether or not said people _actually had_ that kind of effect on you, but it is ingratiatingly humbling to throw them into the speech anyway, because it makes you sound like a more sensitive and caring individual.

The audiences at graduation eat that shit right up.

Finally, you might throw in a quote or two from appropriately acceptable role models who helped mold you or spur you on your journey. A favorite literary figure or supportive clergy member. Maybe even a beneficent grandparent or kindly neighbor from childhood. Along with a witty and thoughtful recounting of whatever incident involving them that was wholly and completely responsible for your blossoming from a run-of-the-mill student into the collegiate powerhouse that you became as you stand at the podium.

You also need to be ready to wipe away an _aw shucks_ tear or two from your own emotional walk down inspirational memory lane if you can manage to drum one up for your closure.

Instantly endearing yourself to everyone in the audience.

Except, of course, to the fellow students that will receive disapproving looks and mildly disappointed reprimands from their own family members for not being up to the standards of that _darling_ young man that moved an entire room with his self effaced and uplifting speech.

Sam knew how to play the game.

Taught and skilled from age eight to be a con man, and to be able to present himself as something completely different from who he really was to get the desired result. An acquired talent that was as necessary as a proficiency with weapons when you were a hunter.

For him, it was no trouble at all to devote an entire speech to influences and experiences that actually had _nothing_ to do with his place at the top of the academic achievement ladder.

Because, really, what was he _supposed_ to say?

The truth?

In this particular case, the truth was a world away from being a palatable and family friendly presentation. Spoken about and expounded upon in an overly warm, uncomfortably crowded auditorium of a private school mostly comprised of God-fearing church goers.

How do you casually speak about your goals for academic excellence stemming from years of a deep seated desire to remove yourself far and away from an obsessed and controlling father? A man who has spent practically your entire life pushing you into a war you wanted no part of.

Where the contributing influences in your background to succeed were actually mostly of the negative kind. The inspiration during long years of intense study coming from a need to be completely and utterly different from those around you.

A necessary escape from a literal nightmare existence.

In the past, education had always been an out for Sam when the reality of their lives got to be too intense and frightening. Where losing himself on a project, or in a work of fiction, enabled him to shut out the harshness of his father's mandates and their decidedly unenviable drifter upbringing.

The horror of knowing about and dealing with things too terrible to speak about in the light of day.

To be honest during his speech, Sam would have to drag his father and brother and, basically, their entire existence as a family through the mud, and he simply wasn't prepared to do that.

So he would lie.

And probably lie _brilliantly_ , because he had learned many things at his father's knee. Dishonesty and deception being high among them. Along with how to be a chameleon, blending into the woodwork of life and being the person that no one ever saw coming.

All the Winchester men had their particular talents when it came to getting what they needed on a job.

Dad has this weird mix of gentlemanly charm and underlying raw intimidation that got people talking when they shouldn't. Dean, a careful blend of playful charisma that always preceded his uncanny ability to see through a lie, and then employing his ability to draw the truth out before you even knew what hit you.

Sam?

Well, Sam knew how to capitalize on the innocence factor. The sweet and shy mannerisms that got people to open up to him because he gave the impression that he really and truly _cared._ And since this earnest boy posed absolutely no threat to you, why not confide in him?

In his defense, Sam really _did_ care about people.

He would be the first one to help out someone in need.

A friend. A neighbor. A complete stranger who might have had a bag of groceries break and be unable to chase down rolling oranges through a supermarket parking lot.

Sam _cared_.

About Alex. His buddies from study group. Other people he had become friendly with at school.

Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim and Caleb.

The people his family had rescued over the years.

His father.

His _brother_.

The brother that was, even as Sam worked on his speech, busy in the kitchen making Sam's favorite chicken and broccoli casserole for dinner.

Surprising, because Dean hated chicken with the fiery intensity of a thousands suns, and he hated _broccoli_ even more. It was a comfort meal that was usually reserved for times when Sam was either under the weather or having a bad day, as some sort of culinary consolation prize.

Although, in this particular instance, the little brother suspected it was more out of misplaced guilt on Dean's part.

Which was absurd since Dean shouldn't be the one feeling regret right now.

It was Sam that broke his Friday curfew by over an hour and a half last night, being too caught up in honing his skills, _after prom night's less than lustr_ _ous_ _performance_ , with Alex in the backseat of his Camaro to answer the four missed phone calls from a very worried big brother.

Even so, it wasn't as if Dean had actually punished Sam for it because, after all, he was trying very hard to respect the kid's adult age now.

You don't _ground_ eighteen year olds.

That's _ridiculous_.

It had merely been a case where, after a _respectful_ discussion, the two of them came to a mutually acceptable agreement between grown ups that Sam probably should be on lock down in the house for the rest of the weekend for a refresher course on familial consideration and proper phone etiquette.

Just a friendly and concerned instructional reminder from a helpful big brother.

All very calm and civil-like.

Truthfully, it had also been _Sam's_ idea.

If there was one standing absolute rule in the Winchester family, it was that the boys _always_ answered their phones. To not do so, is to give the other family members the troubling impression that there is a physical reason preventing you. Considering some of the things that they found themselves up against, an unanswered phone immediately triggers the panic button.

He didn't need to hear the abject frenzy in his big brother's voice, once Sam finally remembered that he had put his phone on silent during the movie earlier in the evening and called to check in, to realize that he had screwed up.

He also hadn't needed to hear the background noise of the Impala's growling engine either. Already knowing perfectly well that Dean was in full search and rescue mode as he tore through the streets of Sioux Falls looking for his missing brother.

By the time both brothers were back in the house, and Dean could finally assure himself that his little brother was home safe and sound, Sam was wracked with remorse over being the cause of the naked fear on his brother's face. Painfully aware of how badly Dean worried when they couldn't reach their father, Sam hated being the cause of unnecessary anxiety.

Especially since Sam had also endured many sleepless nights when John went radio silent in the past.

Dean hadn't been particularly strict about enforcing the _House Rules_ since Sam's birthday a month ago. They had become more of a courtesy guideline than a mandate. Sam also knew for a fact that his brother wouldn't have had a problem with Sam staying out as late as he wanted to if he had just bothered to call and let Dean know what his plans were.

There had been absolutely no reason to not set his brother's mind at ease with a little consideration.

Feeling pretty awful about his carelessness, it had been Sam's suggestion that he park his butt in the house for the rest of the weekend, because the younger brother had a built-in guilt complex. It being perfectly clear that Dean was still stressed and itching to cuff Sam to a chair in an effort to keep a sharper eye on his little brother, but also unwilling to demand it now that Sam was of legal age.

Considering that Dean hadn't objected to the idea of Sam being on home confinement for a couple of days, it only proved how upset he truly was. Although Sam knew he only had a select few weekends left to go out with his friends and be a normal kid, he was responsible enough to own his mistakes.

Dean never asked for much, and ignoring his calls had been a real dick move.

If being in the house for a while, visibly healthy and unharmed, meant that Dean's internal threat level lowered from the panicked red of _sonofabitch-neon-dayglo-holy-crap-sunflare_ _-something-is-trying-to-_ kill _-my-kid-brother_ to the standard Winchester big brother blue of merely _elevated_ , then Sam would just suck it up and deal.

Eventually, as time went on, Sam was hopefully sure that Dean would grow more accustomed to the idea that his little brother wasn't so little any more, and that he didn't need to be watched over every minute. That going back out onto the road on equal footing with each other would get Dean to gradually downgrade the _Watch out for Sammy_ order that defined his life.

It was one of the only check marks in the plus column of being in The Life, because Dean _did_ grudgingly acknowledge that Sam was becoming a talented hunter in his own right. Sam was strong and fast and capable. He didn't like the job, but that didn't mean he couldn't do it well.

Until they were hunting as equal partners, Sam was willing to do whatever he could to make his transition into adulthood easier on the brother that had practically raised him.

So while Dean was theoretically _not_ assembling a guilt casserole in the kitchen, Sam was curled up on the sofa in the living room with his shiny new laptop instead of being out with his friends at the coffee house on a Saturday night. Coming up with enough pandering words to pad his speech so he could get it past the advisory committee who needed to approve it for the graduation ceremony.

It was still hard to wrap his head around the valedictorian honor in the first place.

To be perfectly honest, it wasn't his just yet.

 _Technically._

No firm decisions would be made until next week after finals were over. Of course, Sam was the very definition of overachiever and he had racked up more than enough extra credit during the year to ensure he would come out on top of the class. Even if he completely messed up his finals, _which he definitely_ _wouldn't_ , he'd still almost certainly place first.

Not that Sam was desperate for it, but he wasn't going to turn it down either.

After all, it did look good on an application or resume, if he ever managed to make it out of The Life. Truthfully though, he was feeling fairly uneasy since his immediate competitors were his friends in his study group, because Sam wasn't the kind of kid to enjoy getting one over on a buddy.

Without Sam at Holy Rosary this year, the title would have gone to his friend Nathalie, who would now most likely have to settle for Salutatorian instead. Which meant that Sam's closest friend Michael would miss out on being named Salutatorian, and instead would only have the distinction of graduating third in the class.

Not that either Nathalie or Michael were being unfairly penalized by Sam's potential ranking. Nathalie was already comfortably on her way to Yale regardless, while Michael was heading off to Princeton, but Sam still felt a tad remorseful about the whole business anyway.

Especially since, these days, he was waffling about going off to college.

To say that Dean was caught entirely by surprise when Sam informed his big brother that he was turning down the scholarships to both the University of Sioux Falls _and_ Minnesota State was the very definition of understatement.

You couldn't really blame the older Winchester brother for being completely befuddled by Sam's sudden change of heart regarding higher education. Especially after all they had gone through to make it possible. It also wasn't hard for Sam to see just how annoyed his brother was with their father ever since Sam had expressed his disinterest in college after his birthday barbecue.

And why shouldn't Dean be confused?

Or make the obvious assumption that John must have done _something_ further to his youngest son to convince the boy that it was never going to happen?

It wasn't as if Sam was going to come right out and confess to his brother that the decision had been made to ensure that Dean didn't have to rip himself apart between his two family members to keep the peace. That Sam had stood in the shadows of the kitchen that day and overheard his brother state plainly that he was ready to give up a critical part of his life if it ensured Sam's happiness.

Or that part of _growing up_ meant that Sam came to the conclusion that he wasn't going to be the one that forced the big brother that defined himself by the love of the hunt and the love of his family to chose between the two by the person that loved _him_ the most.

Of course, just when Sam had that all worked out for himself, life's irony had decided to come calling.

 _Immediately_ after Sam had made his decision to give a regular college experience a pass for the good of his family, fate had to intervene, _with lead pipe cruelty_ , and offer up Stanford on a plate.

 _Unverifiable parental contribution_ , was the way that Mr. Hopkins had explained the late scholarship offer.

As if it was news to Sam that his father's income was a mystery.

Stanford University prided itself on the ability to provide financial assistance to anyone that was accepted there and was in need. There were no merit scholarships offered, unless you were an athlete. Sam's impressive GPA, extracurricular activities and dazzling in-person interview got him accepted at one of the best schools in the nation, but they hadn't earned him a scholarship in the traditional sense.

Instead, Stanford offered generous aid for those lucky enough to be chosen to attend, and whose families made below a certain income. With Sam's father having absolutely no income of record, Sam should have immediately qualified for the full shot.

That didn't mean that there weren't real questions about how the family supported themselves on paper. Or how Sam managed to be graduating from a private school that required a paid tuition, when he came from a home that had no reported tax information.

And just to screw with them even further, the fact that _Dean_ had partial legal custody of his little brother had only complicated matters more than they already had been, because there was real speculation about whether or not _h_ _e_ had earnings that needed to be calculated into the mix.

In the end, Mr. Hopkins had pulled every string he could access to assure that Sam could attend if he so chose.

And Sam wanted to.

He really... _REALLY_...wanted to.

Unfortunately, there was still that little matter of leaving his family behind if he went.

A thought that once was a source of attractive relief, but now only made him ache inside. As if to walk away from his father and brother would drive a hole so deep in his heart that he just might never recover from it.

His life was so much different now than it once was, and over the past year he had been witness to sides of his father and brother that either had not shown themselves openly before, or Sam had just been too selfishly preoccupied to notice.

Or maybe both.

Complicating matters even further was the undeniable fact that his resentment of his upbringing was far from gone, and truthfully would probably always remain lurking just below the surface, but it no longer defined him as it once had.

This past year had proven to Sam what he had always known deep down, when he wasn't engulfed in self pity and anger. The simple plain truth that his brother was _more_ than just a hunter and soldier in the Winchester Army, as Sam occasionally and uncharitably saw him. An extremely unfair characterization considering just how much Sam had always relied on his elder sibling to care for him in all the ways that had truly mattered.

While Dean had remained skittish about Dad being out on his own, the older Winchester brother had taken to civilian life with surprising ease.

But should it really have been surprising?

Dean would never be mistaken for anything other than an overly macho and gruff young man by anyone outside their immediate family. Primarily because he worked _very hard_ at maintaining that particular facade, always more comfortable with being feared than being embraced. Intimidation was a good skill to have in their line of work. Dad had certainly encouraged it, and Dean had honed it to a fine science before he was even out of puberty.

But inside their little world, where John and Sam were at the very center of his universe and often in need of a soft touch or comfort, Dean allowed himself to occasionally show glimpses of his gooey emotional center. He fussed over them when they were sick, and tended to them with calm words and soothing hands that gently and expertly made short work of injuries.

It had always been Dean that had done whatever he could to make their temporary homes as livable as possible under difficult circumstances. So it really was no wonder that he easily slipped into domestic living as if it were another craft to acquire and finesse.

And Dad?

Well, Dad was still _Dad_ , but he was something more besides.

It's hard for Sam to explain to his friends who grew up in traditional families about how his father is so completely different from theirs in a million ways that they could never understand. John Winchester regularly vacillated between fearless, driven and hardened hunter of evil to drowning, wrecked shell of a man. Two wild swings of the pendulum that had given his youngest son a lifetime of dizzying vertigo as he watched and tried to judge the rapid fire change of moods.

This past year had changed things slightly. Offering more than one opportunity where Sam had been able to witness short bursts of the brand of fatherhood that Dean had experienced as a four year old, but had always eluded the youngest Winchester. Although they still fought regularly, and lately with potentially lasting damage, Sam had begun to feel a stronger bond with his father since their move.

The dad Sam had always known before could be counted on for orders and rules and discipline. A willing display of affection if Sam was bold enough or fragile enough to ask for it. Training, training and then some more besides, because that is how John had always shown his love to his children.

Keeping them safe by keeping them prepared.

Sam had grown up in a world where his father comforted his fears by giving him firearms and the endless hours of practice to use them with skill and efficiency. His demeanor distant and secretive, which would have been action movie cool if John was James Bond and not Sam's dad.

The Dad of late was still the toughened, hard core, ex-Marine he had always been, but there had been signs of softening around the edges.

Christmas with the Camaro. Regular conversations that didn't involve hunting, showing a willingness on John's part to listen to what his youngest son actually had to say for once. The idyllic days in DC, when the Winchesters were finally a normal family doing the tourist thing. Sam's birthday barbecue where the only things being salted and burned were the burgers on the grill.

Not that it had been perfect by a long shot, because their father didn't change his spots overnight. The fight over college being proof of that.

At the end of the day, Dean was still in worshipful thrall of their father and of the skills he had and the jobs he did, but Sam had just wanted someone to pay attention to him without it being hunt related.

Then Sam realized that someone always _had,_ and it was that plain and simple absolute that was staying his hand as far as going away to school was concerned because it would break his brother if he did.

Sam's new devotion to keeping the peace and doing what was right for his brother's happiness and well being should have had him immediately rejecting the offer from Stanford outright, just so that things were final and uncomplicated.

Unfortunately, so far he hadn't been able to make himself do it, and it was a shameful realization.

Even _worse_ , he hadn't been able to talk to his brother about it.

As if history had not already taught him that he was once again repeating a huge error that had bitten him in the ass twice just this year. Yet he was still foolishly keeping his mouth shut, because he couldn't even begin to decide how to start that particular conversation.

Which only made him wonder if Stanford was as good as it claimed if an _idiot_ like Sam Winchester was getting offered a full ride, because a smarter guy wouldn't be blindly tap dancing down the road to Hell with all of his theoretical good intentions by still not confiding in his brother.

Sam wasn't necessarily in love with the idea of online college.

Honestly, he was still having trouble wrapping his grapefruit around the reality of his father having even given it thought. An absolutely _un-_ John Winchester thing to do in any universe. The Dad that Sam knows is all about responsibility and the family business, and for him to willingly bring up a suggestion of compromise, let alone supply the means for one, was simply mind bending.

There was certainly nothing wrong with the concept of it. Lots of people in the world had difficult schedules and personal lives where being able to earn a degree on the go was a great option.

It was just that Sam had always had a mental picture of his college years as a chance to escape hunting and his father's iron clad control of his life. Last year, before their time in Sioux Falls, Sam would have run off to school without even a blink or a backwards wave in his family's direction. Already plotting and scheming and planning his final exodus from The Life.

 _More than_ ready to leave behind a life of transiency and bloodshed.

Things were different now.

 _Sam_ was different.

All he had ever wanted was stability and normalcy, and this past year had given both to him.

He was also smart enough to realize that life going forward was not going to be like the past year had been, regardless of any material changes in any of the Winchesters. The boys hadn't actually been on a hunt in _months_ , but it certainly wasn't about to stay like that. The minute he graduated, he had no delusions that his father wouldn't immediately pull the brothers back out on the road to continue the family crusade.

But things _would_ be different from their lives before Sioux Falls.

Dean had already made it perfectly clear to his little brother that they weren't giving up the house, regardless of where their travels took them in the future. Another little Winchester family revelation that knocked Sam back on his ass the minute he was privy to it when his brother casually mentioned it at the dinner table last week.

Dean had apparently unilaterally decided that Sam was _done_ with being homeless, and unabashedly told him so, shocking Sam into silence in the process. Stating plainly that the mindset both Dean and Dad had for their willingness to spend their lives on the open road was not going to be Sam's life going forward.

For some unfathomable reason, Dean felt extremely confident that they would be able to hunt with their father and still have a place to come home to during their down time. As if Dad hadn't made his feelings on the boys maintaining ties to Sioux Falls perfectly clear already.

It was an old argument that Sam had often engaged in with John, usually over Dean's objections and pleas for his little brother to just shut his mouth. The few other hunters they knew _all_ had stable homes, and it had always been hard to accept their father's assurances that somehow their family was different enough to render that choice impossible.

Dean had unfailingly defended Dad's stance on the matter in the past.

Citing as the main reason that it was because the brothers were constantly pulled from school to school, sometimes just one step ahead from CPS. Having a verifiable address, even if it was just on paper, made them too vulnerable to well meaning and prying social workers on the lookout for the signs of neglect and abuse that the boys often sported for reasons that were far different from the usual factors.

Even though Sam had never liked that answer, thinking that it was nothing but a cop out to justify Dad's needs to keep them in motion, he had always understood it to at least partially be the truth. He despised their lifestyle and upbringing, but nothing would have ever compelled him to do anything that would result in being torn away from his brother.

Strangers would have _never_ understood that Dean, as a young child himself, was often more responsible and nurturing than a lot of adult parents when it came to his little brother's health, safety and well being. With both boys knowing all too well that the simple knee jerk reaction of institutional do-gooders would have been to take the brothers into protective custody and immediately separate them.

As they surely would have been, considering that, in the eyes of most offices of Child and Family Services, Sam's big brother was a young miscreant who already had a criminal record to his name, and would obviously be nothing but a bad influence on his younger, shy and more academically successful brother.

A biased and ridiculous assumption that could not possibly be farther away from the truth.

Sam watched through the large archway between the living room and the kitchen as his brother cooked their dinner like he had been doing all their lives. Chopping up stuff for a salad that only Sam would eat, and intermittently checking on the progress of the casserole in the oven. Occasionally making notes on their reminder list of things to do that was clipped to the fridge at all times.

Bopping around the room with his endless stream of energy as he mouthed the words to whatever song he must have playing on the radio on the counter. On _low_ volume, of course, because obviously Sam was working on a project for school right now, even it if was in the next room, and Dean wasn't going to interrupt his little brother's concentration, unless it was to prank him.

Sam's studies had always come first. Not necessarily because Dean personally thought that they were important overall, just that they were important _to Sam_.

Watching him, and thinking about all that his big brother routinely sacrificed, it suddenly occurred to Sam that he couldn't even remember the last time that Dean had gone out to just have _fun._ To hit a bar and scare up a game. Maybe possibly hook up with a woman.

Dean faithfully worked at the salvage yard every week day, as well as the weekends they weren't with Dad. Having quickly established a reputation for his craftsmanship, he was solely responsible for the large uptick in business that Uncle Bobby had seen this year. Repairs and routine maintenance, as well as rebuilding a steady supply of classic cars that were being snatched up by interested buyers, faster than Dean could roll them out, and netting impressive profits.

Most of which Sam was seeing the benefit of, because what Dean had was always shared with Sam. When it came to his little brother, Dean was habitually generous to a fault.

He kept their house neat and tidy, which might surprise some who didn't know him well enough to understand that Dean was, by nature, a very organized young man when it came to the important things in life. He had never been one to worry about being a little messy in their temporary motel rooms, but their _home_ was different.

The family had never really had much in the way of material possessions, but now that they were settled, Dean was compulsive about taking care of what they did have in a dedicated and meticulous fashion.

You only needed to look at the Impala as proof of that.

Even when they were much younger, Dean had always made sure that the boys had respectable looking clothes to wear to school every day. Making sure that trips to the laundromat were done faithfully before going out for the night.

Sam may have worn second hand garments, but Dean never allowed either of them to look shabby. Even as a student, he would routinely grumble about kids showing up to classes looking like they had just fallen out of bed. Openly admonishing them and their parents to _have some pride._

He'd always made sure that Sam was fed regularly on a schedule, because the younger brother had an annoying and long established habit of easily losing himself in study or a book and not paying attention to the clock if Dean didn't yank his head out of the clouds for meals. An everyday event over their course of their lives when Sam would find his book being pulled out of his hands and a plate of food shoved in front of him, with a scowl on his brother's face as he indicated the time with a jerk of his chin.

No one was ever going to be convinced that Dean Winchester was a soft touch in any way, and he would literally punch anyone in the face that even suggested it, but Sam had always known from a lifetime of care that his big brother was about as close to a mom as Sam was ever going to get.

And, all things considered, Sam was lucky to have John Winchester as a dad, when things could have been so much worse.

A father that, although absent quite often, taught Sam responsibility, decency and respect. To help others, even if, and _especially when_ , it came at a personal sacrifice. John Winchester wasn't just a lip service good Samaritan. He didn't just talk the talk, he walked the walk.

 _Every single day._

He wasn't a model father, and Sam suspected he hadn't been a model husband either. John self medicated often with a bottle of something or other when he wasn't taking his frustrations out on some fugly. He barked orders and kept them on a short leash, and sometimes hid them away from the world for their safety as well as his own peace of mind, but his boys always knew that he loved them, and at the end of the day, he did more good than he did bad.

Dad had taught Sam tenacity and determination. To go after what he believed in and make a real difference in the world. That actions have consequences, and to take it like a man and accept them. To study and learn, and then use what he had learned to help others.

With startling clarity as he sat on the couch, Sam realized that he didn't need to create fictional inspirational heroes for a speech.

He had lived his entire life among two of them.

"Dinner!"

Dean's voice from the kitchen disturbed his thoughts, and it took Sam a minute to surface from the pool of discovery he had spent the last half hour swimming in. Blinking rapidly, he rubbed a hand down his face and blushed when he saw that Dean was smirking at him.

Knowing that his big brother was amused by catching him once again completely unaware of his surroundings.

Dean thought it was funny, and possibly _cute_ , which only made Sam scowl. Dad would have scolded him and made him run laps, since hunters couldn't afford to become complacent.

He pushes his laptop aside, no further progressed on his speech than he had been when he originally sat down, and lopes to the kitchen. Flopping down in his chair, he leans over and inhales the delicious aroma of the casserole before grabbing the serving spoon and scooping out a huge pile onto his plate. Large chunks of seasoned white meat chicken mixed in with wild rice and broccoli and smothered in bubbling cheddar cheese.

His stomach growls impatiently as he shoves an overloaded forkful into his mouth and sighs with pleasure.

Grinning, Dean hands him a bowl of salad and Sam just about spits out his food when he sees that his brother has a bowl of cucumber slices for himself. Not that cucumbers have a lot of nutritional value, and whatever they do have will probably be canceled out by the enormous blob of blue cheese dressing covering them, but it's a start.

"Shut up," Dean grumbles, catching the dumbfounded look his little brother sends him, before pointedly stuffing a forkful of cucumber in his mouth.

Standing back up, Dean leans over into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer. Sees the pleading look of his brother's puppy dog face, and then grabs another.

It's not like Sammy's going out tonight.

 _By his own design_ for crying out loud, the geeky little martyr.

Kid can have a damn beer if he wants one, Dean decides. He's rewarded with a megawatt Sammy smile with all the dimples as he uses his ring to pop the top off both before taking his seat again. He hands the second beer to his brother and they amiably clink their bottles together before taking a simultaneous swig.

For a few minutes they're quiet, the only noises being forks scraping against plates and the happy little hums of appreciation that Sam subconsciously lets out as he eats. Sam realizes, as he swallows his food, that he's really going to miss his brother's significantly improved cooking while they are on the road.

"We're going to the mall tomorrow," Dean announces with his mouth half full. Still not one to pay much attention to table manners when its just the two of them in their home.

Sam frowns and sips his beer, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Neither of the brothers have ever really enjoyed shopping. Dean especially. Like their father, the older brother would prefer to stay away from crowds full of people that he distrusts on principle alone.

"I'm still on lock down tomorrow," Sam reminds him. "And you hate the mall. Why?"

"I don't have time to go during the week," Dean states casually, throwing his little brother one of the warm dinner rolls that aren't too bad, even if they're the frozen kind. "Besides, spending an afternoon shopping at _Satan's_ _B_ _utt_ _H_ _ole_ is more than enough punishment for anyone."

The perturbed look on Dean's face makes his little brother snicker, and Sam scoops a chunk of butter out of the dish and slathers his roll with it before popping the whole thing in his mouth. At some point he suspects he will eventually stop growing, but until then, he's perpetually starved.

"You need a new suit, Sasquatch," Dean explains. "I know your old one has to be way too short by now."

 _Of course_ , Sam thinks, already resigning himself to falling back into The Life. The whole point of getting his last suit was to allow him to pretext alongside Dad and Dean. Then biology had taken over, rendering him a practical giant now, so a new suit was obviously going to be necessary.

He doesn't know if Dean sees something on his face that gives away his thoughts. Or maybe it's just because his big brother could always read him like a book.

"For _graduation_ , Sammy," Dean says quietly. "Can't have my little brainiac not looking his best on his big day."

For some reason, a warm bubble of affection fills his chest simply from the idea that Dean cares about what Sam will wear under his graduation gown. _He_ hadn't even given it much thought other than to assume he would wear his button down shirt and school khakis, since they are the nicest clothes he owns that still fit.

" _And_ you're getting a haircut while we're at it," Dean says sternly, glaring in his brother's direction.

All warm and pleasant thoughts immediately vaporize as Sam's bitch face makes an instant appearance, and their dinner table is suddenly a verbal cage match between gladiators.

" _No_ , I'm not," the younger brother snaps, back up and hackles raised. "I like it just like it is."

Dean's not backing down this time. Sam's unruly mop of hair is fine and dandy on a day to day basis, but the kid isn't going to look like an unkempt street urchin in an auditorium full of people.

Not on Dean's watch.

"It'll grow back," Dean says as calmly as he can, even as he crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow. "You'll thank me in thirty years when you can look back at your photos and see a good looking guy instead of some kind of nerdy hybrid psychotic sheepdog."

"It's _my_ hair, Dean," Sam snaps, holding his ground and taking another large bite of his dinner. Intent on ending this line of conversation. "I'm a big boy now. I can decide how long I want my own damn hair to be."

Dean sets his jaw and leans back in his chair. Arms still crossed and mouth taut as he stares. It's a contest now, and the victor will be the one that doesn't blink. Digging his heels in, _because it_ is _his own damn hair after all_ , Sam continues to eat nonchalantly and ignores his brother. Dean can sit there and stare all he wants, but Sam isn't changing his mind.

Until a full minute passes.

When the glare of laser hot intensity from his sibling finally convinces Sam that he'll get his damn hair cut if it just makes his brother _shut up_. Even if the annoying little voice inside him unhelpfully points out that is brother isn't actually _saying_ anything.

If it was Dad demanding it, Sam would already be neck deep in an argument right now, fighting for every overgrown strand, but somehow, when it's _Dean_ , Sam finds himself backing down.

He wanted to get a trim _anyway_.

Or at least that is what he is suddenly trying to convince himself.

" _Fine_ ," he seethes, viciously stabbing a cherry tomato and shoving it into his mouth before he says something that really will get him in trouble. Dean might not be going all guardian on him lately, but his big brother _will_ still kick his ass if Sam gets mouthy.

"Fine," Dean responds cheerfully, enjoying the victory he never doubted and grinning a mile wide smile as he turns his attention back to his own dinner. Fishing broccoli florets out of his mound of casserole and flicking them onto his brother's plate triumphantly.

Sam, with a supreme amount of self control, resists the urge to kick his brother under the table, but he also doesn't turn down the cast off veggies.

 _Stupid, pushy, obnoxious, mother hen of a big brother._

No longer in the mood for amiable conversation, Sam broods as he picks his way through his dinner in silence until the sound of his phone ringing comes from where it is perched on the counter and connected to his charger plugged into the wall.

Out of habit, Sam begins to get up from the table to answer it when he stops himself, belatedly remembering that part of his continuing ed lesson on phone etiquette means that his beloved cell is off limits for the weekend. Not for the first time today he mentally kicks himself for imposing his own sentence.

At least he knows it's not Alex, because he's already informed her that he's _not_ grounded at home all weekend, and it's okay because her parents weren't entirely thrilled with her late arrival either. Any of his other friends can wait until Monday when he's back in school.

Resigned, he goes to sit back down when his brother rolls his eyes and jerks his head in the direction of the counter. Wordlessly giving consent that the agreement can be broken, but with a raised eyebrow that cautions Sam that this concession has a short shelf life, and Sam nods his understanding even as he leaps for the phone before it goes to voice mail.

He notices, very briefly, that the number is _unknown_ , but he answers it anyway, studiously ignoring his brother's casual interest in the caller.

"Hello?"

" _Sam? It's Mr. Hopkins, from school. Am I disturbing you_?"

"No, sir," Sam responds, shaking his head at Dean when his brother mouths _Dad? "_ Not at all."

" _Good. Good. I'm sorry to bother you_ _on a Saturday_ _, but I haven't seen you this week in my office or heard back from you about Stanford's offer. You remember that there is a deadline?_ "

Sam pushes back the feeling he gets that his adviser sounds a bit overanxious as he fumbles a bit with his phone trying to act as casually as possible.

"Um...yes, sir. I'm still giving it a lot of thought."

There's a brief pause and a clearing of a throat on the line, and Sam suddenly realizes that he's holding his phone in an iron clad grip as he struggles to keep his composure under his brother's obviously interested disinterest.

" _Sam...I don't want to pressure you,_ _but you have to realize what an incredible opportunity this is. It would be a shame to pass it up_."

Sam shifts slightly, so that his back is turned away from his brother. Dean can read him like a book and if he can see Sam's face, he will immediately know that something is up.

"Yes, sir. I understand. I just haven't decided which direction I'm going in just yet," he answers, as noncommittally as possible.

Another pause. A deep sigh, and Sam almost has a mental picture of the man on the other end of the phone pinching the bridge of his nose like Dad does when he's frustrated with youngest.

" _I know it's a big decision, Sam. But don't wait too long. Their offer is generous. Thousands of other students would be honored by the chance to have what Stanford is giving you._ "

Sam swallows hard and pushes back an urge to fidget that would give away the unease that is hanging over him with every second that passes. He knows that it's only a matter of time before he has to come clean with his brother, but he simply isn't ready today.

"Yes, sir. I know," he answers, trying to sound casual. "I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

Dean is up and grabbing another beer, decidedly _not_ looking at Sam, but the younger brother knows by the lack of Dean's reminder that Sam should not be using his phone right now that his big brother is more than interested in the conversation taking place.

" _Very well, Sam. You have a bright future ahead of you. I hope that I haven't misjudged your commitment to your continuing education_."

The inference is all too clear, Sam thinks to himself. Mr. Hopkins has pushed and stuck his neck out for Sam, and is probably regretting all of his efforts due to Sam's lack of decision and enthusiasm.

"No, sir," he chokes out. "I appreciate all of your help. Really."

" _Don't hesitate to ask if_ _you_ _need anything further. I'm always available. Good night_."

"Thank you, sir. Good night."

The line clicks and Sam ends the call, ignoring his brother's inquisitive look as he replaces his phone on the charger and returns to the table.

"That was my adviser," Sam offers voluntarily as he butters another, now cold, roll. "He's waiting on my draft speech for graduation."

Dean looks directly at him, and Sam knows from years of experience that his brother is mulling it over in his mind as to whether or not he's going to call Sam out on his lie. After a few seconds, he sees Dean sigh deeply and stab his fork back into his bowl of cucumbers, and they both know that there is again another secret between them.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says tiredly, as he continues to eat. It's obvious that he's not planning on pursuing this conversation any further.

Sam should, _right this very minute_ , confess all and _talk_ to his brother, but once again he keeps his mouth shut. Even though he knows there is simply no reason for it. Dean has been nothing but surprisingly supportive through all of this. Ready, willing and able to reorganize his life and potentially alienate their father in the process to give Sam what he wants.

But that's just it.

Sam doesn't want his brother to bend any further than he already has. The minute Sam even hints that there is still a scholarship on offer, to _Stanford_ of all places, the gears in Dean's mind will start whirring again.

After all, this is the school that Sam skipped off to, knowing that his duplicity could fracture their brotherhood, but going anyway. The place that caused two months of their lives to be engulfed in secrecy, mistrust and hurt feelings. Where Sam was coming back from when the two of them had the worst fight they ever had between them.

Dean won't take the news that Sam still has a chance to study there very well, and when he _does_ find out, Sam is half afraid that his brother will start looking for rentals in Palo Alto in another selfless attempt to keep them together. Leaving behind his job with Uncle Bobby and the house he takes such good care of, without hesitation if it means Sam's happiness.

Giving his little brother the college life he wants, as well as the family he loves.

And Sam is _more_ than half afraid that he will want his brother to do exactly that.

/

His hands are shaking on the dove gray leather wheel of his Mercedes as he ends the call.

The steady traffic above him makes a continuous thundering noise as the vehicles traverse along the slick overpass in the heavy shower, and every gunning of a semi's diesel engine rattles his already jangled nerves. His breathing is stuttering, coming in fits of hard pants and shaky exhales, but he grinds his teeth together hard enough to make his jaw ache as he fights to regain his composure.

"I'm doing the best I can," he asserts with more confidence than he feels. "I can't physically force him to go if he doesn't want to."

In the passenger seat lounges an impressively beautiful woman. She has long dark hair that she is idly twirling around a pristine manicured finger as she gazes distractedly out the window, where sheets of rain from the electrical storm that routinely follows her pound relentlessly to the ground.

The smooth expensive leather of the seat underneath her creaks as she shifts, moving to cross one shapely leg over the other. The new position causes her exceptionally short black skirt to ride higher up her thigh, and she takes her free hand and slowly runs it seductively up between her legs before giving him a sultry stare as her glossy lip curls up over a row of even white teeth like a predator.

He knows that it's meant to be an enticement. That every motion is calculated for maximum effect and impact, but they only serve as another sick reminder of what kind of evil and depravity he is really consorting with.

"That's not good enough, baby," she croons, leaning over to rake her blood red nails through his thinning strawberry blond hair. "We need to make sure that he's going to be alone and on his own, or it's no deal."

She arches her head closer to his own and he chokes back a wash of bile that crests in his throat. Her breath is heavy on him. An overpowering stench of spearmint gum unsuccessfully masking an undertone of rotting eggs. He cranes his head away and closes his eyes tightly, feeling his skin prickle with revulsion from the intimacy of their contact.

"I can't do any more than what I've done already. It's not like I can put a gun to his head and make him take the offer."

She laughs, and the sinister ring to her amusement flips his stomach. Even her pleasure, _especially her pleasure_ , is unsavory and unholy to his ears.

"Do _better_. Or it's no deal."

His blood goes cold from the overt harshness of her words. Knowing that she's not casually making a veiled threat. These past months of blood chilling terror and shame from making deals with devils has wreaked havoc on the existence of a formerly good and decent man.

" _Please_."

Desperation clinging to him like a second skin as he endures her touches and lascivious stare, he forces himself to look at her and pleads with the last remaining shards of self respect falling away like cinders on the wind.

"I have a boss to answer to, baby," she coos, stroking the hair away from his forehead. "We've made you a fair offer, but once Sam Winchester is back on the road with his family, you're no good to us anymore."

The clock is ticking in his world. Each passing minute ringing out like the blow of a hammer as the days fly away towards graduation. When his influence over the kind and whip smart young boy will come to an end, and his own life will collapse into a death spiral if he fails.

"Why him?"

The demon in the shotgun seat smiles wide as she plays with the buttons of his dress shirt. Her touch forces an involuntary flinch that she ignores.

"He's already ours. Your pretty, pretty wife isn't the only mommy that made a deal for her son," she purrs, slipping her fingers in between the folds of his shirt to rake her nails on his chest. "You're lucky. Usually we wouldn't even need you. We've been guiding him for years just fine. But that school of yours? Well, let's just say it's made our job a little harder this year than it normally is. The big boss wants to see what happens when Daddy and Big Brother aren't around."

The man pulls in a sharp intake of breath, considering her words. Every fiber of his being wants to know the details of why a demon wants Sam away from his family so badly, but the loving husband and father that he is knows where his loyalties lie. He hisses when she abruptly pulls her claws away from his chest harshly enough to leave a thin trail of blood behind.

"Do your job," she warns him, playtime clearly over, as her eyes flash red. "Or your wife's contract comes due in less than a year and we drag her screaming straight to Hell. And your boy? He might just get crushed by a bus crossing the street one day."

A second later, she is gone. The seat next to him empty with only a faint residue of yellow powder left in her wake. Her final words have left behind a cold, petrifying terror, enough to make him visibly shake with chills. Although the storm that had been raging around them is now clearing up, his entire body is absolutely frozen.

With shaking hands he pulls his wallet from his suit pocket and extracts a photo of his beautiful wife and fourteen year old son. They are his whole world, and there is nothing he would not do to protect them. Especially after the heartache they had gone through when their only child was dying of leukemia at the age of five.

He had actually laughed at first, when his wife told him about the deal she had made, still giddy with relief when the doctors told them that their little boy was going to make it.

After all, the idea of selling your soul was just so _Faustian_ that it was ridiculous.

As time went on, he pushed it to the back of his mind, intentionally ignoring his wife's increasing unease as the years passed by. Their son grew strong and healthy, like any other regular child. Their livelihoods were successful enough to afford them all the comforts in life and they were a loving family.

It was only when he was first approached by the black haired she-devil seven months ago, and shown real proof of what had occurred to facilitate the miracle of his son's recovery, that he had begun to believe.

His wife's contract would be voided if he did what they told him to do and pushed young Sam Winchester towards a life away from his family. Her soul safe from damnation, and their son free to grow up without fear.

It hadn't really been a hard choice to make.

/

A psychic ability, sometimes even considered a gift, often manifests itself during the onset of puberty.

A spiritual awakening to coincide with a sexual one, perhaps. When hormones begin to rage and the body changes in a thousand molecular ways.

Always ahead of the curve, Pamela Barnes had her first experience with clairvoyance when she was eleven years old.

Spirits spoke to her. Usually whether or not she wanted them to. They came into her room at night while she slept, desperate for her to act as their conduit to the living world. She didn't mind it, at first. They didn't really scare her, and after having been raised by a great aunt who also had the gift, Pamela already knew the score on the supernatural world.

As she grew older, her gifts surged in size and frequency. Sometimes too overwhelming to deal with, since the ability to tune out every single sensation she got from practically every item she touched was threatening to make her insane.

As a teenager, she found that she could deal with the blaring needs of the other side infiltrating her every waking moment by living her own life _out loud_.

Music cranked, at high volume, drowned out the constant mutters and desperate pleadings of restless dead. With _The Ramones_ warbling at incredible decibel levels, practically rattling the windows of the house she inherited from her aunt, she could find peace for a while, when she didn't feel like every nerve she had was on fire.

Roaring down the highway, her Harley throaty and vibrating between her legs, she found freedom from the things that would chase her and bully her into doing their bidding.

Wild nights between the sheets with Jesse, her tattoo artist boyfriend. Drunk on tequila and engaging in energetic sex acts that could possibly be illegal in some more prudish states, her voice pealing with laughter and lusty commands for _again_ and _more_.

Over time, she learned to understand and embrace her talents. Controlling them, without being controlled by them. They were of use now. Not only as a source of income, but for the help they gave her to assist those in The Life.

Pamela was sound asleep the night she was pulled from her slumber with a force that she had never felt before.

Still slightly buzzed from an evening of partying, and sore from hours spent straddling Jesse's work bench. Drunk with lust and Jose, curvaceous and completely nude while his needle inked her back as he claimed her as his _forever_.

The spirits were restless that night, and they badgered her with an intensity she had not felt since her first year of her psychic awakening. They came at her in numbers and mentally tore at her until she was left with no choice. Until finally, nauseous and head throbbing she punched in the numbers of her main connection to the hunting community.

"Bobby? It's Pam. You need to find John Winchester. Bring help."

/

"He'll be here."

Standing in front of his dresser mirror, Sam finished knotting his tie as he huffed derisively. Dean was already dressed in his own pretext suit and leaning in the doorway, a cocky grin on his face that didn't quite meet up with the worry in his green eyes.

"Yeah. Sure he will," Sam muttered, cinching it tightly under his freshly starched collar. "Not like he ever promises to do something and then doesn't bother to show."

It had just been the hopeful naivete of a loving son that had convinced Sam that his father would actually ensure his presence at his youngest's high school graduation. The only graduation of a child that John Winchester would have the chance to see, and that son being the valedictorian besides.

Even crappy parents usually managed to make it to once in a lifetime events like that, but _no_.

Not Sam's dad.

Surprisingly, Dean didn't bother to try to say anything further in Dad's defense. Sam knew it was pretty bad when the good soldier couldn't drum up an excuse for their father's chronic absenteeism.

"You about ready, kiddo?"

It was already stifling hot, so Sam didn't bother putting on his new suit jacket, let alone the heavy, pale blue gown that he would be wearing for an hour in the sweltering auditorium. With his rapid fire metabolism, he tended to sweat a lot anyway, so why do anything to encourage it early.

"Yeah. Just let me grab my stuff."

A little frazzled, he darted around his room and collected his jacket, cap, gown and Honor Society sash. Taking one last look in the mirror, he ran a quick comb through his recently clipped hair and declared himself good enough. Together, the brothers descended the stairs and headed out to the driveway after locking the house up well behind them.

"It's your day, Sammy," Dean smiled indulgently. "You wanna drive? Or be chauffeured?"

Sam _did_ want to drive, actually.

As just another indication that he was an adult now and could navigate his own way through life. But one look on his brother's face made him realize that Dean was just as vested in the journey that had led to today as Sam was, and suddenly it seemed fitting that his big brother guide him the rest of the way to the end of his high school days.

"Nah," Sam answered, grinning at his brother and heading to the passenger side of the Impala. "You drive in all that crappy traffic. I'm just gonna sit back and relax."

Dean didn't say anything to contradict his little brother's statement, more than happy to take the wheel as always, although he couldn't help but feel something disturbingly final about the way they pulled out of the driveway and made their last car ride to Holy Rosary together.

/

Every female head in the parking lot turned as the Winchester brothers made their way towards the school. Some male heads too, to be honest. As the handsome young men strode through the crowd, there was more than one jealous muttering of how it wasn't fair that some families had all the luck to win the grand prize in the genetic lottery.

Sam and Dean Winchester in henleys, flannel and blue jeans were a pleasure to look at. Sam and Dean in nicely pressed and slim fitted suits were enough to _take your breath away_. They walked along the sidewalk and towards the front door, oblivious to the overt swooning following in their wake. Both of them too preoccupied by the absence of their father to really notice much else.

Once inside, Sam had to veer off towards the gathering area for the graduates, giving his brother a good natured punch on the arm as he smiled and trotted off. Uncomfortable around a large crowd of people, Dean instinctively went into defensive mode as he scanned the immediate surroundings.

Although he wasn't actually expecting any trouble, his Colt was tucked securely in the waistband of his suit pants, well hidden under his jacket. A silver knife was neatly nestled in the ankle sheath, snug against the skin of his left leg. His inner pockets were seamlessly concealing two flasks. One of holy water, and one of whiskey.

In his right jacket pocket, he also had a clean handkerchief, _just in case_.

Not that _Dean_ was going to cry or anything, no matter how proud he was of his kid brother kicking ass and taking names today, but he was a gentleman after all, so he was prepared in the event someone _else_ got all emotional over their ridiculously smart little geek.

It also seemed to be quite dusty in this cavernous space, so who could blame him if he happened to get some in his eye at some point?

With Sam being the valedictorian, their family had reserved seating right in the front row, and as disdaining as Dean was about being center stage of anything, he couldn't help the little flit of pride that passed over him as he took the first chair. There were three more seats reserved for Dad, Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim which, hopefully, would be filled before the ceremony started.

Sam didn't know, but Bobby, Jim _and_ Caleb had all taken off yesterday once John had failed to check in after his poltergeist job out in Amherst, New York.

The fact that all of them felt the need to go in search of his father was making Dean's nerves singe, even though he was desperately trying to keep his hands from shaking and his voice from cracking when talking to Sam. It was a strength in numbers that was practically unheard of in the hunting community unless shit really had hit the fan.

As far as Sam knew, Bobby was called away on a quick job elsewhere, and Jim was expected in the auditorium as planned.

Dean had chosen to keep the full truth from Sam, not out of cruelty, but out of concern. It was hard enough for Dean to stay quietly on the sidelines when his dad was out there somewhere facing who knows what. Only the steady assurances of both Bobby and Jim that everything that could be done, was going to be, kept Dean from racing towards Amherst in the Impala at top speed.

Only that firm promise, made by men that Dean trusted with the lives of both his family members, had allowed the firstborn Winchester son to bottle up his feelings and physically be there for his little brother's big day.

Sam had worked far too hard to get here to have to either abandon it, or _be_ abandoned, and Dean knew that his dad's oft repeated command of _watch out for Sammy_ took precedence over everything else.

 _Including_ their father.

As much as his little brother liked to fight with their dad and pretend that he didn't worry for John's well being on a hunt, Dean knew that Sam would have willingly walked away from his big day to jump in the Impala with Dean and go in search of their missing father, without even blinking, if they truly suspected he was in trouble.

But that couldn't happen this time.

Before Dad left on this particular hunt, he had made it perfectly clear that Dean's job was to keep an eye on his little brother, no matter what. To steer them both clear of the hunt that John had undertaken alone, for reasons that he wasn't willing to share or explain.

It was an order that really didn't sit well with Dean all things considered right now, but a lifetime of doing exactly what his father always told him to was a hard thing to start ignoring, no matter what his gut was screaming.

If Dean didn't have the utmost faith in the three men who were going in his place, three men that had covered his father's back in the field on numerous occasions, he would never have been able to put on his suit today and paste a smile on his face for his little brother's benefit.

If there was one thing that Dean and his father had always agreed on, it was that Sammy came _first._

Which is why Dean was also digging in his heels about maintaining the house here in Sioux Falls. Sam needed some normalcy in his life, and if the kid was willing to put his collegiate dreams on hold, it was the least that Dean could do for him.

The auditorium was filling up and the young man that only liked noise in the smokey atmosphere of a bar began to fidget under the steady buzzing and humming of chatty, happy families. Because of his preferred placement, and the lack of others occupying the chairs near him, at least he was spared the jostling and oft times rude shoving of strangers sitting next to you in public places.

He kept his gaze wandering around the room. Always alert of his surroundings and exits

Like Dad had taught him.

Thankfully it wasn't too long before the ceremony started, because he was beginning to climb the damn walls. It wasn't helping that the chairs next to him remained accusingly empty. Their expected guests worryingly still absent, and no reassuring phone call to let him know that all was well.

He forced himself to focus his concentration on the parade of graduates making their way in an orderly fashion. A steady stream up the center aisle as they awkwardly marched along to the music. The school band was playing a decidedly amateur rendition of _Pomp and Circumstance,_ with a lead trumpet that was doing his best to outplay the rest of the musicians.

Probably a good thing considering that there was more than an occasional register squeak from the woodwind section, and a less than enthusiastic bass drummer that kept skipping a beat and throwing everyone's timing off.

Dean could see him before he was anywhere even remotely near. The hazards of having your last name beginning at the end of the alphabet meaning you were perpetually at the end of a line. Several inches taller than the majority of his classmates, Sam was a dark tower bringing up the rear of the procession. All chestnut curls tucked under that ridiculous cap, tassel swaying as he strode along.

A smile that was bursting with happiness and dimples so deep you could swim in them.

By the time Sam had made it to the front row of the audience, on his way to climb up the center stairs to the stage, he took a quick glance at where he knew his family and friends should have been seated, and the grin immediately faltered and didn't recover.

Dean tried not to be hurt when his little brother realized that his elder sibling was the only one in attendance to witness the culmination of all his years of hard work, but it was a difficult task.

Sam climbed the stage, the very one where he had made his theater debut a few months ago, and hardened his heart against the lack of familial support. That his father hadn't managed to make it today shouldn't have surprised him, but sadly, it still did. The additional absence of Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim, the other two adult role models that had always been present in his life, only complicated matters even more.

It was painfully difficult to accept that almost no one in your life cared about supporting you on such an important day. So many hours worked on his studies. So many fun activities given up over the years so that he had the necessary time to dedicate himself to achieving top grades under the least optimum circumstances.

How many times had Sam put aside his school work to do research for Dad? For Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim, for that matter? And Caleb? Well, shamefully Sam hadn't even thought about inviting Caleb, to be honest.

Although he really should have.

Sitting in his chair of honor, as the class valedictorian, Sam couldn't even put a finger on why he hadn't thought about the man that was almost like another older brother to him. Maybe because Caleb was too much like Dad, and some subconscious part of Sam knew without being told that John's protege wouldn't make the time for something as frivolous as a high school graduation.

Or it could have been the discomforting fact that Caleb was _almost_ like another son to John. A son, like Dean, committed to the cause and willing to _snap to_ whenever Sam's dad barked an order.

Unlike Sam.

The rebellious and continuous disappointment of the family that didn't even rate his father's presence here today.

In Sam's hands were a small stack of papers that he had been allowed to march with, given that he had a speech to deliver. For days he had worked on the version that he submitted to the advisory committee for approval. Somehow, his slick tongue had managed to craft the wholesome inspirational words that he first knew would be what was expected and required by him. Drawing upon random incidents that sounded good on paper, but had no actual meaning in his life.

Expounding on encounters with, and advice given, by people that Sam honestly couldn't care less if he ever saw or spoke to again.

But at the bottom of those pages was a _second_ version.

The one that the committee had never seen, and would not have the chance to stop Sam from delivering should he so choose.

The one that was honest and sincere, where Sam genuinely commended and gave thanks for the men in his life that had truly made him the person he had become. Even if the stories he had to tell about them were a little darker and grittier than family friendly fluff. Without disclosing their true professions as he spoke of them, the contents might be a tad on the disturbing side for the general audience, but they would have real meaning for Sam and the men he was honoring.

The father that molded him in a million different ways. Some good, and some bad, but Sam really only wanted to concentrate on the good today. The surrogate uncle that taught Sam the love of research and a hundred and one uses for a bottle of whiskey. The clergyman who had always been a source of spiritual guidance as well as a reminder that you could love your fellow man and still kick some ass.

And, of course, his big brother.

Who meant so much, and had done so much, and was _loved_ so much, that were just no words to adequately describe the influence he had on Sam's life.

It was this part of the speech that Sam was still unhappy with, even after several drafts. Simply because, no matter how he phrased it, the sentiments never seemed to do his brother enough justice. Words frustratingly failed the mostly eloquent young scholar, exactly when he had needed them the most.

This was the kind of place where decent people didn't cause a scene if it could be helped, and an unapproved, altered valedictory speech that wasn't in any way offensive wouldn't start a ruckus before Sam could finish it.

In a daze, Sam sat through the opening prayer. The gratuitous ramblings of the invited speakers, and the droning of the customary anecdotes by the administration. The songs that were warbled out by the school choir, and another slow tempo and off key offering from the band.

All fuzzy and muffled in his mind because his focus was solely on the empty seats in the front row.

When the time came for Sam to step up to the podium and do honor to the true influences of his life, still hurt by the absences, he made a last minute decision to deliver the safe speech. Of course it was well received, because Sam knew how to play the game. Knew who to flatter and amuse with his humility and witty anecdotes.

And he studiously avoided the confused look on his brother's face as Dean failed to recognize these unknown random people that Sam was waxing poetic about.

Afterwards, there was the loud applause of a polite audience, including his brother. No longer frowning his confusion, but just looking genuinely proud, regardless of the nonsense Sam had just spouted. Sam hadn't failed to notice that his brother had taken several camera shots during his speech, and even as he retook his seat he wondered if he would ever be able to look at them and not feel sadness and regret.

After almost an hour of ceremonial drivel, when the graduates were to the point of melting on the stage from the warmth and suffocation of their polyester gowns, they finally came to the end of the program where they were called in turn to receive their diplomas.

Third to last, which was not uncommon when your name was Winchester, Sam's name was announced and the polite crowd once again clapped their approval for the dear young man who had stirred their emotions with his fraudulent words.

It was only when Sam made the obligatory turn forward, photo ready with his diploma in one hand, while his other shook the principal's, that he saw that his brother was on his feet and cheering wildly for him, camera flashing madly in his hands.

Shouting out enough love and enthusiasm to make up for _two_ _full row_ s of family members.

Only _then_ did Sam stop to think that Dean, and the rest of the audience, had deserved to hear the words that Sam had to say in regards to the most important person in his life.

Sadly, it was just too late.

/

The first thing he experiences is the sound of excruciating torment.

He feels himself striding along a dark tunnel surrounded by screams and whimpers. Pleas for release and absolution, and even though he doesn't quite understand what is going on, somehow he knows that salvation will never come to the wretches who choke out the sounds.

It's stifling hot and the air is heavily weighted with the stench of fire, smoke and sulfur. A dusting of ash falls in every direction without letting up and it coats him briefly until the next gust of putrid air washes over him. There is a crunching noise under his feet that he ignores for the most part, but it doesn't even seem to phase him when he gives the ground a cursory glance to notice that he is treading on a pathway of skulls and other human bones.

He just keeps walking.

Dark, shadowy figures begin to appear in his peripheral vision, but he pays them no mind.

They are _beneath_ him.

Existing only to serve him and follow him wherever he decides to go. A steady stream of sallow supplicants bowing and scraping. Shielding their faces from his gaze because they know they are not worthy of his recognition, and to have that sort of presumption will only anger him and bring pain and suffering upon themselves.

It's an endless walk along the path of skeletons. The crowd behind him increases and swells as he treads his way into the blackness. The hum of his legion slowly beginning to overtake the futile cries of the damned in his ears. With him setting the tempo, their gait becomes steadily more uniform, building as it reaches the militaristic formation of an army regiment. Until it eventually becomes a sea of faceless soldiers marching to his leadership.

He sees it now.

The gate that he somehow knows is the barrier between his world and the one he is meant to conquer.

Striding forward, no fear, a sneer on his face that denotes the feeling rushing through him that is a mixture of exhilaration and pleasure.

He _wants_ this.

No. He _needs_ this.

This is what he was born for. This is what he has trained for.

One last surge as he pushes closer to his destination. His blood pumping hot and fast as his heart rate thrums and adrenaline shoots pure electrical energy through his veins.

He's almost there.

Muscles tightening, preparing for combat. He's every bit the warrior his father has taught him to be. Every bit as lethal and brutal, the killing machine his training has carved him into. He's an unstoppable force of deadly intent, and woe to those that oppose him.

The gate is close enough to almost touch it. Within his grasp if he stretches his hand just a little further.

He's ready.

He's primed, and it's time to show everyone that ever doubted him exactly what he is made of.

And then he stops.

Sees them lying bloody and battered in front of the gate.

Crumpled in a heap of entangled limbs and covered in bruises and ash. One figure motionless and prone, lying strewn across the lap of the other. Held in a tender embrace, with the head of the other bent and shaking.

He stares.

Vestiges of memory intruding in his mind and muddling his concentration. He doesn't know why their presence halts his progress.

They are nothing.

He is _everything_.

Unstoppable and uncaring, and how _dare_ they impede his progress?

Then the bowed figure slowly looks up, and to his horror he recognizes the beaten face of his own father. Bereft and broken as he futilely gathers the other body closer to his chest. In the motion, the face of the other lolls enough to reveal the pale, freckled visage of his brother. Awash in rust colored streaks, his lifeless green eyes stare blindly at nothing, because he's just an empty shell now. His brother is long gone.

"Why?" his father asks, desolation and anguish heavy in his throat. "We always loved you."

He realizes then, that he has done this.

Somehow, his actions have served to destroy his family. His brother's gruesome end, firmly at his own hands, and suddenly he can't control the impulse that comes over him to do what he needs to and bring about his father's demise as well.

He moves without forethought. His motions steady, strong and determined as he shoves his brother's corpse off to the side like so much garbage as he reaches for his father and wraps his large corded hands around the man's neck.

Feeling nothing, he squeezes until his father's eyes, so similar to his own, bulge out of their sockets and he watches with satisfaction when the man takes his last breath and the lights go out. Without remorse, he shoves the body away like it's diseased and he straightens up and cracks his neck.

This is how it was always supposed to end. He has always known that he is different.

 _Tainted and unclean._

An abomination. Dirty and foul, no matter how much he prayed or how hard he tried to be kind and decent. Unworthy of the love of his family or anyone else. It is his destiny to be here among the depraved and the filth.

There had never been another choice.

Off to the side, almost out of view, a pair of yellow eyes shimmer in the blackness.

"You're my favorite, Sam."

/

" _ **NO!**_ "

Sam shoots upright in his bed like he's been launched from a cannon. His bedroom is pitch black in the moonless night. His breathing is harsh and making his chest ache as he gasps for air. Drenched in sweat, his t-shirt is plastered to his skin and the bed covers are bunched and tangled in his long legs.

On cue, he hears the frantic pounding of his brother's footsteps in the hallway a second before his door bursts open. Dean has his Colt held steadily in his right hand as he sweeps the room for any dangers. Once he's satisfied that they are not being attacked, he flips the safety back on and lays it down on Sam's dresser before striding across the room to where his little brother is trembling in his bed.

"Sammy? You okay?"

Still attempting to calm down, Sam nods shakily, feeling equal measures of embarrassment and fear under his big brother's scrutiny. It's been over a year since he had this recurring nightmare. Long enough that he had felt that it might be gone for good. As if the comfort of their home was enough to keep the darkness at bay.

Dean takes a deep breath, his face clouded with worry. He recognizes it for what it is. Sam has always been prone to night terrors since he could walk, which is one of the reasons why Dad decided to keep the nature of the family business a secret for as long as he did from his youngest. Surprisingly, knowing the truth had actually helped to ease some of the fear from Sam's sleeping mind.

Eventually, it was just the one recurring, truly horrific nightmare that remained. The one that Sam would never share the details of with his father or brother.

At one point, when Sam was about thirteen, the frequency and intensity had gotten so bad that both John and Dean gave actual consideration to the idea of Sam seeing an expert about it. Not a licensed mental health professional, mind you, because they weren't the average people after all. But there were certain individuals in their line of work that specialized in dealing with this sort of thing.

A shaman that John had worked with in the past, and trusted, spoke with Sam on two occasions and eventually provided the dream catcher that was hung over every bed that Sam slept in for years. It seemed to work well enough, and the frequency of the nightmare tapered off until it became a very rare occurrence.

Rare enough that they had never even bothered to install it in the bedroom in Sioux Falls. Instead it hung on the false bottom of the Impala, just above the grenade launcher, and traveled with them when they met up with Dad, just in case it was needed.

Sam shuffles back so that he is leaning against the headboard and studiously attempting to avert his brother's probing stare. It's not that he doesn't realize that Dean is just worried about him, but after years of being the family freak with the night terrors, he had been hoping that they were gone for good.

"I'm fine, Dean. Just go back to sleep."

Dean huffs and shakes his head. Kid can be so damn stubborn, and there's just no need for it. Sammy can't help it if this happens, and Dean knows that his little brother is going to keep himself up all night in an attempt to stay awake so that he doesn't have to suffer through it again tonight.

"Yeah, sure. C'mon, tough guy. Let's go put one of your crap movies on for a while."

He reaches down and grasps Sam by the forearm and yanks him to his feet, fully expecting Sam to follow him downstairs, which he does with an obligatory show of resignation.

Down in the living room, Dean pushes his little brother to sit on the couch, grabs _The Empire Strikes Back_ video tape and puts it on. After years of coping with Sam's nightmares, Dean knows that nothing relaxes the kid like some classic Sci-Fi _,_ and _Empire_ is a favorite of both brothers. Sam's preferred genre of film is dark fantasy, but he can't handle them when he's already a cauldron of fear.

Dean darts into the mud room long enough to grab a clean tee from the basket of folded laundry. It doesn't matter that it's Dad's stuff. In fact, tonight it might help. He strides back into the living room and holds it out for Sam to take, which he does after a second of hesitation.

Sam pulls off his own soiled shirt and replaces it with his father's USMC tee, blushing slightly since it's no secret to any of the Winchesters that this is Sam's comfort shirt, and the reason Dad has kept it as long as he has, as Dean throws the other off to the side.

Still tense, Sam curls up on the couch, tucking his long legs underneath him and wraps his arms around his torso. He can't seem to stop shivering, and after a second of contemplation, Dean grabs Dad's hand-me-down leather jacket from the hall closet and tentatively offers it, knowing that in all likelihood, Sam will reject it like he has many times in the past.

Surprisingly, Sam grabs it and covers himself, muttering a quiet _thank you_ , unable to look his brother in the eye. It speaks volumes about how shaken up the kid is if he willingly takes the coat, which doesn't do anything good for Dean's unease.

Not wanting to stand there and stare at Sam, Dean heads into the kitchen, taking the sweat soaked shirt with him to throw in the mud room, and pulls a gallon of milk out of the fridge. He pours some in a small pot and puts it on the stove, adding some sugar and cinnamon to it.

While he waits for it to heat up, he ponders Sam's episode, not entirely surprised. The nightmare tends to occur when Sammy is especially upset and overly tired. More often than not, some conflict with Dad is also a contributing factor.

Quite frankly, Dean was expecting this the night of the big college fight, but it didn't happen. He had chalked it up to the fact that the fight took place in the early morning, and by nightfall, Sam wasn't upset, he was just _pissed off_. With Dad, Bobby and Jim missing graduation today, which was clearly devastating to his little brother, it was no wonder the kid was having a restless night's sleep.

Just before it scalds, he turns off the heat, adds a generous measure of bourbon and swirls it in the pot to mix it before pouring it in Sam's favorite coffee mug. By the time he returns to the living room, Sam is scrunched up under the coat and leaning far back into the couch, his eyes betraying a few stray tears.

 _Shit_

Sammy only cries if the nightmare runs its full course. A hazard of having his own room, because Dean can interrupt its progress when they are sleeping side by side. Since his little brother refused to talk about it, Dean didn't know exactly what it was about the big finale that terrified his kid so much, but apparently tonight Sam got the full showing.

"Dad's sleepy time cure-all," he says sympathetically, making no reference to Sammy's red eyes as he passes the mug over. "Guaranteed to knock you so far on your ass, you don't care what your dreams do."

"Thanks," Sam sniffs, as he takes the mug and sips from it.

Their father, in one of his many non-parenting group approved moves, always answered restless nights with spiced milk and bourbon. It probably wasn't the healthiest method to get his boys back to sleep, but Dean had to admit that it had always worked. Sam was big enough and old enough to handle the double shot of the bourbon that it was obvious he was going to need tonight.

On the screen, they watch Han slice open the belly of the tauntaun and shove Luke inside to keep him warm.

"Man, that's just gross," Dean says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "If that ever happens to us? Let my ass freeze. Okay?"

It works, drawing out the tiniest smile and a nod from his little brother as he takes another sip, and they don't talk for awhile as the movie plays.

Once Sam is finished with his mug, Dean sees his eyes become heavier, and it's about time too, considering how much he doctored the drink. He's not going to push the kid to go back upstairs until Sam decides for himself. If little brother wants to stay downstairs all night and watch cheesy eighties fantasy movies, then that's what they are going to do.

By the time the movie almost finishes, a slightly tipsy Sammy is listing towards Dean, and the older brother shifts slightly so the kid can relax against his shoulder and stretch out those ridiculously long legs down the length of the couch. He almost doesn't hear it when Sam finally breaks the silence.

"You think he's okay?"

Dean knows who _he_ is. It's been eating him up inside all day, and truthfully he wasn't even asleep when he heard Sam's cry of distress earlier. Dean's at least been expecting an update from either Bobby or Jim, and the fact that none of them are answering their phones is enough to drive the older brother directly up the wall.

He really and truly hates unanswered calls.

"He'll be fine, kiddo," he soothes, forcing himself to keep his voice from breaking up. "He always is, isn't he?"

Dean feels Sam's head nod against his shoulder, and thankfully little brother isn't able to see Dean's face because he's pretty sure that the worry he's trying to mask is glaringly apparent. He's never been able to hide his emotions from his brother like he can with everyone else. An inevitable consequence of living in close quarters their entire lives.

Sam's not willing to go back upstairs, and Dean doesn't suggest it. When _Empire_ ends, Dean mentally rejects putting on _Return of the_ _Jedi_. The last thing either of them need right now is to watch a movie where the absentee father dies at the end just as he makes peace with his son. Instead he grabs _Highlander_ and gets that started while he makes Sammy another milk and bourbon.

Halfway through the second mug, just around the time that the Highlander is drunk and getting repeatedly stabbed during the duel for calling a man's wife a bloated warthog, a bleary, slightly drunk Sammy lists enough that he is dangerously close to falling into Dean's lap.

A comfort position that the younger brother reserves solely for his dad.

Dean grabs the mug before it makes an unscheduled descent to the floor and deposits it on the coffee table. He pulls the throw pillow from behind his own back, lays it on his lap and guides Sam's flopping head down until he is resting on it. Sam resists feebly for a minute, before he gives in, shifting his lanky body around until he is lying the length of the couch.

Pride be damned, Dean decides. Both of them are worried, stressed and hurting. An exception can be made.

As the movie progresses, Dean is sure that Sammy is _thisclose_ to falling back to sleep, so he's surprised when he hears his little brother's quiet voice.

"I would never hurt you. Or Dad."

The remark shocks Dean into silence, and he sits for a few seconds blinking hard and wondering just what prompted that.

"Of course not, Sammy. Why would you even say that?"

Sam rubs his face tiredly into the pillow, and Dean can tell from the tension in his body that the kid is agitated, so he rubs Sam's back like he did when his little brother was so much tinier and freaked out from his terrors. It seems to calm Sam enough for him to relax a little more and he sighs deeply.

"I swear. I wouldn't. You have to believe me."

On top of his already abused bundle of nerves, Dean doesn't know how to deal with this disconcerting line of conversation right now. Sammy is the most kind and gentle person Dean knows, so why the kid could even think he needed to vocalize an assurance to Dean that he wouldn't cause him injury is just a little more than the older brother can mentally process right now. All he wants to do is get his kid back to sleep.

 _Without_ the terrors this time, thank you very much.

"I believe you, Sammy," he soothes, as he continues to rub the knots of tension out of his brother's back. "Shhh, kiddo. Go back to sleep now."

And thankfully, Sam does just that.

The brothers are still asleep on their couch as Saturday morning dawns. Somewhere, during the second showing of _Highlander_ , Dean finished Sam's milk and bourbon and then lost his own battle against impending slumber.

Exhausted, with a little booze miring his consciousness, it takes Dean a minute to realize that his phone is vibrating in his pocket. He manages to retrieve it, but not without waking his brother, and is too drowsy to look at the Caller ID. Sam stirs just enough to hear the sound of Dean answering his phone.

"Hello? Oh, thank God."

/

The boys are waiting anxiously by the front door when Bobby drives the Sierra into their driveway. The minute they hear the black truck's engine roaring to a halt they are both on their feet and rushing out the door to assist their father lying battered in the passenger seat.

Between the two of them, it only takes a few minutes to get Dad into his basement suite since they have gone in through the lower back entrance that avoids the stairs in the house. John is terribly bruised. Obviously the worse for wear, but somehow he still manages to embrace both of his children before collapsing on his bed. Dean does his best to divest his father of his soiled clothes while Sam kneels to work the knots out of John's boot laces before tugging them off.

For the next several hours, they take turns standing watch as John sleeps. He's about as damaged as the boys have ever seen him when a hospital wasn't involved. Bobby, as always, refuses to impart any details about what has taken place, other than to assure them that their father will recover after a few days of rest. Dean wants to throttle the salvage man and force him to give them information, but he knows it won't do any good. Bobby may not always agree with John, but he generally will respect their father's wishes if he thinks it's for the boys' own good.

The day and the night pass quietly without much being said. As if the brothers are waiting silently for their father to regain alertness enough to talk to them about what has been going on, although they both know that it is unlikely that the details will ever be forthcoming. It's enough to set Sam's teeth on edge, because he truly hates being left in the dark like some incapable child who can't be trusted with the family secrets.

It makes him even more irate when Dean doesn't seem to exhibit the same need to know. Blindly accepting their father's elusiveness and secretiveness as simply facts of life.

During the night, John has stirred into consciousness twice. Enough so that Dean can help him use the bathroom before shuffling back to bed and then immediately back to sleep. This isn't a new occurrence in their world unfortunately. The drill already learned and practiced over the years. He keeps his dad hydrated as best as he can until John can handle a little bit of nutrients, but it won't yet be for a while.

In the morning, Dean leaves his father's bedside long enough to slip upstairs for some coffee. He's surprised to find that Sam is already there with a freshly brewed pot, along with some eggs and bacon that he serves Dean on a plate. Dean throws his brother a surprised look because Sam never cooks for them.

 _Ever_

The younger brother just shrugs and pushes the plate towards him with a little more insistence, not saying anything because he would never voice the true reason for making his big brother breakfast today to Dean.

It would be uncomfortable for both of them.

Dean's not one to look a bacon gift horse in the mouth, so he happily takes the plate and devours it in record time, surprising himself with just how hungry he actually was. Thinking back on it, he doesn't really remember eating the day before. His only time in the kitchen being the two times he had put together some sandwiches for Sammy.

Sam smiles and pushes Dean towards the couch, knowing that his brother is practically dead on his feet with exhaustion. With Dad home, and _relatively_ okay, and Sammy safe and _definitely_ okay, Dean can finally lower his guard and get some rest.

He's asleep under the blanket Sam throws on him before Sam even makes his way back to the kitchen.

Standing at the stove, Sam puts together another plate of eggs and bacon and carries it downstairs to his father's room, just in case. Seeing his dad still out for the count, face marred with abuse that Sam can't even begin to comprehend the origins of, and looking _too much_ like the night terror of two nights ago, Sam shoves the breakfast plate onto the dresser by the doorway before he darts into the bathroom and throws up his own meager breakfast into the toilet as quietly as he can manage.

He sits on the cool floor of the bathroom and rests his head against the glass panel of the shower until he is sure that the waves of nausea are gone before he climbs onto to his feet and pads back over to his father's side. Dad hasn't been disturbed by the noise, which is worrying enough, since even when John is injured, his guard remains up.

Feeling sad and tired in a way that he can't begin to describe, Sam slides down the wall next to his father's bed and sits on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest. He looks up at his dad's battered face and feels his blood run cold, and it's all he can to do keep from climbing into John's bed and clinging to his father like he did when he was small and scared.

"Happy Father's Day, Dad."

/

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It was supposed to be a routine hunt. Just a quick job to ease the boys back into the hunting life. A simple salt and burn because John's still recovering from his time in New York. They're just cleaning out the resident restless spirit of an old Victorian home where the workmen restoring it were getting killed by their own power tools.

A job the Winchesters had done a thousand times. Something almost _mundane_ in their world, if you could call anything that they did mundane.

It wasn't supposed to happen with Sam distracted and too angry over another argument he had with Dad on the trip down to remember to check his blind spots.

I wasn't supposed to end with Dean in the back of an ambulance being revived for the second time while Sam cowered in a corner, arms curled around his head in anguish amid the mess of medical equipment, shaking from the knowledge that it was all his fault.

/

Hanging up his phone, Richard Hopkins exhaled loudly enough that his wife could hear him in the next room and concernedly ask if he was okay.

 _Everything was fine_ , he assured her.

He took her in his arms and practically sagged with relief as he held her tight enough to threaten her own air supply. Feeling a giddiness that he hadn't felt since he was told that his son would live.

Sam Winchester had just informed him that he was going to Stanford after all.

Everything was just _fine_.

/


	15. July 2001

A/N Mountains of angst. Physical confrontation between John and Sam. You've been warned. Enjoy.

/

They're eight and four.

"Daddy's gonna be mad."

Sammy's little rosebud mouth is pursed in a worried pout, his plump baby cheeks puffed out and pink as he watches his big brother meticulously pry the black cloth covering away from the shelf behind the backseat. Each tiny motion as precise and accurate as possible. At eight years old, Dean was already a methodical hunter in training.

"No, he's not, Sammy," Dean reassures him, determined with the certainty that only an already responsible big brother could summon. "He won't even know."

Dean continues using his silver knife to slowly wedge back the thin carpet-like fabric so that there are no noticeable tears. If they are very, very careful, the entire piece could be smoothed back and no one, _not even their dad_ , would ever be the wiser.

A quiet Saturday in Jonesville, Michigan, their latest home of the week. Mid September and already beginning to feel the first real hint of approaching fall. You could smell it in the air. Dried leaves and the light essence of chimney smoke from chilly nights still hanging on the wind in the early morning hours. It wasn't cold enough outside during the day for coats just yet, but Dad liked to be prepared and had dressed the boys in thicker, long sleeved shirts to make sure they stayed warm while they were waiting in the car.

No school today meant that the brothers had to come with him while he worked the job. Not an ideal situation, but Dean wasn't quite old enough yet to be entrusted to watch Sam on his own, although the time for that was coming soon. Both of the boys were mischievous and energetic, and the possibility of unsupervised mayhem was still too great. It had been almost over half an hour since Dad went into the house to talk with the people that lived there, and Sammy was growing bored.

Already well schooled in Sammy-speak, Dean knew the signs of an impending tantrum level disruption, and he quickly realized that he was going to need to do something to keep his little brother occupied and preferably _quiet_ until Dad was back. There were too many people walking past the parked Impala as they went about their Saturday errands, and the last thing Dad needed was to have some _Nosy Nellie_ take issue with the two small boys left alone in a car, especially if one of them was crying.

Sammy loved his new preschool, and he wouldn't stop animatedly chattering, _even for a second_ , about how much fun he had there with the other kids. Playing games and singing songs. Proudly, he had told Dean that he was the only one in his class that already knew all his letters.

Dean wasn't surprised. After all, _he_ was the one that had been teaching his little brother how to write since the kid could hold a pencil. Whatever Dean learned at school, he made sure that Sammy did as well.

After another few minutes of meticulous levering, Dean is able to pull back enough of the cloth covering to reveal the press board panel behind the seat. He turns and leans over the foot well of the backseat on the driver's side and rummages in Dad's duffel until he finds the extra silver knife. With an impish smile on his face, he hands it, handle first, to his little brother.

"Let's practice those letters some more, Sammy."

It doesn't take much persuading to convince an antsy four year old to gouge his initials into the press board. With a fierce determination puckering his entire chubby face, the intense concentration on a task that he would exhibit his entire life, Sammy rakes the blade back and forth in jagged lines until his _S_ and _W_ _a_ re clearly etched next to his brother's _D_ and _W_. While carving his own mark, Dean watches his little brother like a hawk, making sure that Sammy doesn't accidentally lose his grip on the blade and cut himself.

Dad might be willing to overlook some fairly well hidden gashes made to _Baby_ , but there was no way he would stand for any injuries to his real baby.

Dean also keeps a sharp eye out for anyone taking extra notice of the boys with the knives. Fortunately, no one seems interested enough to look closely at what they have in their hands.

Once they are both finished, Sammy takes a deep breath, as much as his tiny lungs allow him to inhale, and he blows a small puff of air across the shavings, scattering some to stick and cling on the folded backside of the cloth covering, as well as the black cuffs of his own little shirt.

"Look, Dean," Sammy smiles happily. "It's you and me."

He looks up at Dean with a huge grin, hero worship and awe in his little hazel doe eyes, and Dean hooks an affectionate arm around his brother's tiny shoulders.

"Yep. You and me against the world, Sammy. _Always_."

" _Always_ ," Sam agrees.

/

They're nine and five.

"Watch me, Dean. I'm Batman!"

Sammy's high pitched childish squeal rings through the air, catching the attention of his big brother who had looked away just long enough to miss his tiny shadow scaling the wooden slots of Pastor Jim's equipment shed. It's not a particularly large shed. Only four feet high in some places. Just one of those little wooden structures that Jim uses for gardening equipment and extra cans of gasoline.

Before Dean can stop him, the tiny boy is confidently leaping off the slanted pitch roof. For a moment, time stands still as the older boy's heart surges up into his throat.

Realizing just a split second too late that his little brother would have taken Dean's earlier ill thought out Superman jump as something to aspire to and copy. Rambunctious and hyper, the sugar high from their breakfast of candy remnants leftover from Pastor Jim's community hall Halloween party last week still swimming in their blood stream, making quiet play impossible.

It's _The Day_ today. That one day of the year the brothers make themselves scarce as much as they can. Dad is holed up in his room at the rectory, not talking to them or paying any attention to anything at all really.

Dean doesn't tell Sammy why they need to leave Dad alone and go outside and be quiet on this particular day, only that they have to.

Sam wants to pester Dad into playing with them like he usually does when he is home, not caring that _playtime_ with Dad is some sort of preparation for training. All Sam knows is that Dad is spending time with them, and that's good enough for him, but Dean knows better for today anyway, and he scrambles to find an alternate activity.

Dean does sweeten the pot by assuring his little brother that they can put on the flimsy dime store plastic superhero costumes that somehow Dean had persuaded Pastor Jim to buy them for the party. Dad usually doesn't allow them to celebrate Halloween, and they are determined to get as much use out of them as they can before they have to leave them behind in Blue Earth.

Sammy doesn't have Dean's formal training yet. Dad is still keeping that part of their lives secret from his younger son, and would continue to do so as long as it was possible. Where Dean has the longer legs and the fallback knowledge of _tuck and roll_ , poor Sammy flops off the shed, looking less like the Caped Crusader, and more like a clumsy silver and blue penguin.

With his overly large plastic mask blocking the majority of his vision and his stubby legs tripping on the long length of the flimsy costume, the cape fluttering behind him, Sammy stumbles and falls, toppling the four feet directly onto his left forearm. For a minute, Dean is almost convinced that his little brother won't cry, but then those huge puppy dog eyes flood with tears and his puckered pink mouth quivers threateningly.

Sammy's arm is curled under him in an unnatural position, and even Dean's novice eyes know a break when he sees one. Comforting his brother with one arm, Dean yanks off his own Superman costume with the other as he frantically scans the church property for signs that Pastor Jim is back from his errands.

Luck doesn't seem to be in the cards for the Winchester brothers that day, since Jim's truck is still missing from it's place by the Impala. Sammy's cries are only growing louder and more heart rending by the minute and Dean knows that he's going to have to do whatever it takes to get his little brother some medical help.

For a brief second, he gives consideration to getting his dad, but he dismisses the idea as quickly as it comes. Not that their father wouldn't rouse himself enough to get help for his youngest, but the scene it would cause would be unbearably tense and traumatic for all of them, and Sammy's already crying and scared enough.

Besides, watching out for Sammy is _Dean's_ job, and if Dad is ever going to start trusting him to hold down the fort on his own, Dean knows he needs to take care of this himself.

He also remembers Pastor Jim once saying something about forgiveness being easier than permission. That sounds like good advice to Dean right about now.

It only takes a minute for him to dash across the lawn and snag the Schwinn bike that Pastor Jim allows Dean to use on their visits. Shiny blue with an extra long metallic silver banana seat and handlebars so huge that Dean sometimes pretends that he's really driving a Harley as he zooms around the neighborhood. He manages to hold the bike steady while he helps Sammy climb onto the handlebars, his broken arm tucked securely to his chest.

The hospital is only a few blocks away, and the big brother pumps for speed as they take off down the crush and run gravel path that leads to the street, praying that Jim is back in time to answer the phone when Dean has to eventually call him from the ER.

"It's okay, Sammy," he assures his now quietly sobbing brother. "I've got you. You and me, right?"

Sammy nods his curly little head and hiccups.

"You 'n me against the world."

/

They're twelve and eight.

The snow is still falling pretty heavily in Broken Bow, Nebraska. They've been in this crappy motel room for days with its musty odor and dingy off white walls in desperate need of a paint job. Ancient metal twin beds with lumpy, faded quilts and mattresses that have seen too much use to be comfortable, and an ugly pale gray plaid sleeper sofa that creaks in protest every time they sit on it.

When Dean isn't trying to comfort his devastated little brother, he's shooting furtive glances towards the motel room door and hoping that the craptastic weather doesn't mean that their missing father has been in an accident. There are protocols in place for the brothers if their father doesn't make it back within a certain window, but just because Dean doesn't have to stress about their next move doesn't also mean that he's not worried about never seeing his father again.

Dad has never missed Christmas before, and what if something bad has happened to him, or something bad has _gotten_ him, because Sammy has snaked his journal? The journal that holds all of Dad's knowledge and defenses against everything supernatural.

What if he's hurt because he was caught unprepared?

Against his will, Dean finds himself feeling more than a little anger at his brother, but he tamps it down as best as he can because Sammy's still just a little kid who doesn't know any better.

Sammy's also trying to put up a good front, but Dean knows that the boy's heart is bleeding. They have tried to keep him innocent for so long, and that whole blanket of ignorant comfort and protection has just been ripped away from him with one harsh yank. It's a lot for an eight year old to process. Even one as scary smart as Dean's little brother, and it would be foolish to think that he's not completely freaked by the idea that monsters are real and their father spends his time away from them fighting the things that frighten them.

In his sadness and fear, Sammy hasn't touched a bite of his _exotic_ Mac & Cheese, in spite of the fact that Dean's earlier foray to the convenience store down the street had really been for the sole purpose of buying the world's smallest, most expensive jar of Marshmallow Fluff.

He wasn't kidding when he told Sammy that he was out getting the kid's dinner, and he wasn't talking about the jerky and Funyuns either. Sure it would have been easier to get another pizza, but he had wanted something special to take some of the pain away.

The bribe hasn't worked though. The entire pot now sits unwanted and slowly congealing on the small electric single burner on the counter, and neither of them really have any kind of appetite.

There were better ways to spend Christmas.

The old television is showing another Christmas classic. This time it's _Frosty the Snowman_ , and the forced cheerfulness is doing nothing for either brother as they sit on the creaky couch silently counting the minutes pass by without their father coming through the door.

Sammy's eyes are still red rimmed from crying himself to sleep last night, and then again after Dean's failed attempt at convincing him that Dad dropped off presents for them, and it's to the point that Dean can't even look at his little brother anymore without feeling anger at himself for spilling the beans about Santa Claus in his attempt to explain Dad's job to his little brother.

Sammy might have demanded the truth about what was in Dad's journal, but that didn't mean that Dean had to take away Christmas too.

He reaches up and thoughtfully rubs the heavy amulet that now sits in pride of place around his neck. It's an ugly little thing. Enough to give you nightmares just by looking at it, but Sammy swore that it was special and Dean believes him. Even if there is nothing particularly special about the amulet itself, Dean's little brother chose to give it to him instead of their father, and that _makes_ it special in Dean's eyes.

He glances over at his bereft and brooding little sibling and silently swears that he will never take it off.

 _Ever_

Poor Sammy hasn't had anything good to remember this Christmas by. Just an absentee father, stolen chick presents, a tree that is nothing more than a few branches that are as sparse and broken as their own family, and a dinner that could cause early onset diabetes.

He deserves better.

Determined now, Dean grabs one of Sammy's crayon nubs. Well worn and almost used up, the paper wrapper long gone, he goes over to the door they have been surreptitiously staring at and draws a target.

Dad will freak right out when he sees it, because it will probably cost them the deposit they have put down, but Dean is willing to wash it off later if he can, and if nothing else, it will give the slumlord that owns this dump a reason to paint the damn walls.

Sam watches as his big brother rips open the packaging of the Sapphire Barbie and grabs the sparkly tasseled baton as well. By the time Dean is done, the baton has been transformed into a slingshot and Barbie is now the slick blue projectile.

They spend the next hour taking turns practicing their aim, with Dean assuring Sam that the better he gets, the more skill he will have for helping Dad and Dean fight the monsters off.

With the day coming to a close, still no Dad in sight, and their arms and hands sore from target practice, Dean coaxes Sam onto the couch next to him and produces a rare bag of Gummi Bears that are Sam's favorite. Sammy practically curls up in his brother's lap as they share them, all but ignoring the television that is now broadcasting _The Little Drummer Boy._

Sammy's eyes are wet again and his voice is watery, and Dean can feel his little brother trembling against his chest as he slowly chews his candy.

"You and me against the world, right Dean?"

Dean sighs heavily and rests his chin on the top of Sam's head as he rubs his brother's arm, trying to comfort them both as best as he can.

"You know it, little brother."

 _/_

They're fourteen and nine.

It's spring break and Sam and Dean have been parked in a little motel in Racine, Wisconsin for the past month. Lately Dad's been making noise about them possibly staying there until the end of the school year. Usually Sam would be really excited about that prospect, but ever since he found out about what the real family business is, he has thrown himself into training so that he can hunt alongside his father and brother.

The hope is that he won't be left on his own anymore if he can prove himself as capable a hunter as his big brother. Not that he necessarily _wants_ to hunt, but he does want to be with his family. It truly scares him to be left behind and not know whether or not they are safe.

Dean's been in trouble again at school, and Dad thinks that they need to put down some roots for a bit so that his firstborn can get a little stability in his life and get back on track. They don't need the extra attention from CPS right now either, and the school social workers have been hovering a little more aggressively recently. But there is a ghoul hunt in Milwaukee, not far away, and Dad could use Dean's help. So once again, Sam finds himself alone in the bizarrely farm themed motel room that is at least a little nicer and a little cleaner than their usual digs.

After telling Dad that he was worried that there might be a monster hiding in his closet, Sam is now considered old enough to shoot a gun and train alongside his brother, although sometimes he is still young enough and gets lonely enough to summon the comforting presence of Sully, his imaginary friend, once his father and brother leave.

Their absence leaves a deep painful ache in his stomach, and the fears that run rampant through his mind during the endless hours that he sits alone in the room make him fret and his body tremble. When Dean calls to check in, Sam begs, with desperate tears breaking up his words, to convince Dad to let Sam join them because the walls are closing in on him in his despondency and grief at being left behind again.

Sam knows that Dean will try his best to persuade Dad to reconsider. Reminding him that they are all Winchesters and they hunt. It's what they do, and Sam should be right there next to them while they do it. It's not as if Sam has never been on a hunt before, even if it was just to be kept safe in the car next to Dean while Dad did all the work.

But that doesn't happen anymore, because Dean is old enough now to hunt alongside Dad as a junior partner, and they've decided that it's safer for Sam to stay an hour away in a motel room than it is to have him vulnerable and alone in the Impala where a stray monster could possibly get to him when his family are engaged elsewhere. Sam doesn't like that development, and sometimes he suspects that Dean is in agreement with Dad on this, even if he tells Sam otherwise.

Sometimes Sam also feels that it would just be better if he ran away from this life. The world that his family lives in is dark and dangerous and it eats away at Sam during the frighteningly quiet times on his own in unfamiliar ever-changing motel rooms.

He doesn't necessarily _want_ to leave his family, but they are always leaving _him_ it seems, and maybe there is something different out there for him that is less fraught with worry and terror. Where he can be normal and safe and not the kid with the freak family for a change. He feels frustrated that he isn't allowed to help his father and brother, but is still forced to stress about them never coming back for him.

It might just be easier if he left first. That's what Sully tells him anyway.

Of course Sully is just a figment of Sam's imagination, so isn't it really just what Sam is telling himself?

He's not sure.

After Dean calls and confirms that Dad is still rejecting Sam's pleas to be included, Sam imagines that he and Sully lay on the beds in the crazy farm room and play games of wishes and desires that are too abstract in Sam's mind to really be obtainable. They are the hopes and dreams of a young boy who battles the harsh rejection of his father by thinking up a happier and brighter future for himself, and if his make believe playmate agrees with him and encourages him, all the better.

We all need some positive affirmation in life, regardless of where it comes from.

Sam's given a lot of thought to running away lately. It's only the knowledge of how terribly he'll miss his Dad, and especially _Dean,_ that keeps him obedient and submissively parked in the motel. He can't imagine a life without his brother. Although Dean goes out with Dad to hunt occasionally, he's more often than not right at Sam's side, caring for him and watching out for him like he has all of Sam's young life.

If Sam left, he would miss his father, but he would _ache_ for his brother.

Sully seems to think that Sam would be better off on his own, and the part of Sam's mind that has conjured Sully seems to agree with that sentiment. Enough that Sam makes a decision to go and leave his solitary sad life behind him. He's not sure where he will go, or what he will do. All he knows is that his family doesn't seem to want him with them, so he won't make them put up with him any more either.

Then, just as he's getting ready to pack his stuff, Dad calls and tells Sam that he can come along after all, and Sam is so incredibly happy that he is practically dancing with excitement when he informs his imagination that his family _does_ want him as much as he wants to be with them. It's a soothing balm on his perceived rejection and hurt feelings and suddenly he can't wait to see them again.

Dad and Dean are only an hour bus ride away from the transit center a few blocks from the motel. Sam already knows the route and the schedule because Dean always makes sure that he knows how to get to them in an emergency when they are out without him. Dean also makes sure that Sam has the money to travel too, because his big brother always takes care of him no matter what.

As Sam runs around the room packing up his things, he seems to have a heated conversation with his thoughts as they manifest themselves into a projection of Sully. He doesn't remember exactly what he says to convince that part of his subconscious that this is for the best. That Sam is a Winchester, and he's off to go do what the Winchester family does.

Like Dad. Like _Dean_.

His thoughts nag at him until finally he snaps and banishes the idea of Sully from his presence and his mind for good. He doesn't need imaginary friends any more. He has his father, and he especially has his brother. They are his family and they are _real_ and now they trust him to help them do their job.

It's all Sam has ever wanted.

Dean is waiting for him at the station in Milwaukee when Sam's bus pulls in, already smiling with the cock sure grin that defines his big brother's facial features. Sam bounds off the bus like an excited puppy, his overly large duffel bag swinging widely enough behind him that it practically knocks over an elderly woman who scowls her displeasure at his bad manners.

Sam doesn't care. He just runs over to where his brother is standing and throws his arms around Dean, happy and grateful that somehow his brother has managed to talk Dad into letting Sam come along. Dean rolls his eyes at the theatrics but he manages a few affectionate pats on Sam's back before he pushes the younger boy back, because he doesn't really want to be seen hugging the kid in public.

He has a reputation to uphold after all.

That doesn't mean that he completely pushes his brother away, and Sam smiles with all the dimples when Dean throws an affectionate arm around his bony little shoulders as they make their way towards the exit doors where Dad is waiting in the Impala at the curb.

"How'd you get Dad to let me come with?" Sam asks, with wonderment and awe in his eyes.

Dean smirks and hugs Sam a little tighter for a second as they lope along, weaving their way through the crowds that are streaming through the bus terminal.

"Told him that I needed my trusty geek boy sidekick to help with the research, of course," Dean states matter-of-fact, with a _Duh_ look on his face. "We're partners, Sammy. You and me against the world, remember?"

"You and me, Dean," Sam agrees, pressing himself closer to Dean's side as they head outside into the sunshine.

/

They're sixteen and twelve.

Dean has tears in his eyes as Sonny heads back out to tell Dad that Dean is packing up and will be right out. Tonight has not gone as he had been hoping it would. Right now Robin is at the school waiting for her date to arrive, only Dean will be long gone from the Hurleyville area before she finds out that he's standing her up.

It makes him feel like a dick for hurting her like that.

He takes off the dress shirt that he paid real money for, after working some extra chores around the farm. He wanted to look nice for his girlfriend and after two months, he hadn't honestly thought that Dad was coming back for him. Now he decides that it's going to stay at the farm for the next kid lucky enough to live there. All it would do is remind him of what he is giving up tonight to go back out on the road if he kept it.

He looks around the bunk room and feels a pang of sadness clutch in his chest. It's not anything special, the room. A little on the shabby side, not unlike the usual homes of the Winchesters, but it was starting to become a _real_ home for Dean. He doesn't actually have much to pack. It's not like the arresting officer allowed Dean to grab his duffel before taking him into custody. All he is leaving with tonight is what he brought with him.

The clothes on his back, a few dollars in his pocket, and nothing more. Sonny has his wrestling accolades already framed on the wall in the hallway, and as far as Dean is concerned they can stay there. He doesn't need anything from his time here to get in the way of his life as a hunter.

Dad honks again, clearly getting annoyed at how long his firstborn is taking to say his goodbyes to a place that has no prominence in John's mind, and to people that should mean nothing to his son. Dean knows that, to his father, this was a two month stint in custody and nothing more. You don't feel regret at leaving your jailer when you get released from prison after all.

Dean has made a choice tonight. Sonny offered him the chance to be a kid. Knowing only the responsibilities of a kid and not the heavy duty predestined obligations of a Winchester. No longer John's second in command, or Sammy's guardian and caretaker.

Just _Dean_.

Sixteen year old, good looking smart ass, with a smoking hot girlfriend and friends on the wrestling team. Honest hard work on the farm and a future that might not get him dead by thirty.

A person far different from a boy in The Life.

He glances out the window again and sees Sammy, still playing in the backseat with what appears to be a new toy plane. Young and innocent and so trusting, and Dean wonders how the past two months have been for his little brother. Whether or not he even thought about Dean at all. Or, _worse_ , if he was as grief stricken at the loss of his brother as Dean was over him.

With a watery chuckle, tears threatening to escape once again, Dean draws back the curtain for the last time and racks his shoulders back. He immediately feels the weight of responsibility being lowered onto his shoulders again, and this time it doesn't feel quite as heavy. His shoulders are metaphorically bigger now that he has voluntarily shed the last vestiges of his own childhood.

As he leaves the bunk room, he softly closes the door behind him and walks boldly to the front door, reminded of a passage that Pastor Jim once quoted to him some years ago.

 _When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things._

No words had ever seemed truer to him than those do at this moment. It is for Sam now that Dean leaves his childhood completely behind him, and he does it willingly, because there is no one in this world that he loves more than his kid brother.

Sonny is standing guard on the front porch, steady and firm and seemingly ready to intervene should Dad decide that a scene is going to be made here tonight. Fortunately, Dean's father seems content to sit behind the wheel, not even sparing his wayward son a glance as Dean nods a last goodbye at his caretaker before striding across the lawn towards the Impala.

When Sam sees his big brother walking towards them he throws his toy aside and pushes open the back door. A split second later he is running across the lawn as well, quickly closing the gap between them as he flings his arms around his missing brother and grips tight.

For a moment, Dean allows himself the warm comfort of hugging his little brother close, pressing his face into Sam's wild tumble of hair and fully realizes just how scared he was of never seeing him again. He clutches Sammy closer to himself for just a few seconds more, knowing that Dad's patience will start to wear thin very quickly, before grabbing Sam's arms and swinging the smaller boy up onto his back to carry him the rest of the way to the car.

Sammy's still so small for a very newly twelve year old, and his happiness at seeing his brother after a long two month separation has him giggling as he wraps his arms so tightly around Dean's neck that he is practically choking the older boy. Dean notices the large dangling cuffs of the flannel shirt that Sammy is wearing and smiles fondly. It's one of his own that's practically drowning his little brother.

Sam has a habit of wearing either Dad or Dean's clothing when he is especially missing them.

When they reach the Impala, Dean opens the back door and slides into the seat after his brother. There's a good chance that his father will relegate him back there as some sort of punishment exile anyway, so Dean beats him to the punch and doesn't even try to ride shotgun.

If he's honest with himself, he's also still pretty upset with his father for ditching him with no word for two months as well.

Dean's more than willing to shoulder the lion share of the blame for his time at Sonny's place, but that doesn't mean that he wasn't hurt and shattered by the deputy's words gleefully informing him that his own dad said he could _rot in jail_. Dad isn't normally that callous about his children, and Dean is ninety-nine percent sure that the statement was a fabrication made up by the petty man he gave a black eye to, but there is still that small insecure one percent that wonders if Dad did, in fact, say that about his firstborn.

In any case, it doesn't matter. Even if Dean was allowed to sit up front, Sammy is clinging to him like a spider monkey and for once Dean is going to allow his little brother all the physical comfort he thinks he needs. He doesn't know where Sammy has been for the past two months, or whether or not anyone was giving him the attention that he craves, and there's no denying that Dean was at fault, so he figures he has a lot of making up to do.

Dad is staring at him in the rear view mirror and Dean stares right back. They spend a moment holding a silent conversation where each of them both condemns and forgives the other for what has transpired. Wordlessly, they come to an understanding, nodding at each other and letting the matter drop for good. Dad puts the car in gear and a second later he is roaring down the road and leaving the farm behind them.

Sammy talks a mile a minute, catching Dean up on his time at Uncle Bobby's house. One second chattering about the new books he has read, and then the next scolding Dean for getting lost and leaving Sam alone. Then the very next worriedly fretting over whether or not Dean was okay or hurt from the imaginary hunt that Dad had apparently told Sam that Dean undertook.

With years of practice under his belt, Dean fends off each question and concern effortlessly until Sammy's attention is back on the toy plane that he informs his big brother was a birthday present from their father three days earlier.

Dean's gut clenches at the reminder that he wasn't with Sammy for his twelfth birthday earlier in the week. It had been a day of agony for him, the separation all too painfully and keenly felt. He had actually allowed himself to shed a few tears into his pillow that night, long after he thought that all his tears had dried up from the hurt of being separated from his family, possibly forever.

He forces himself to push aside a momentary harsh thought that Dad kept them apart on purpose as some kind of penalty to be used in impressing the lesson further onto his firstborn. Hoping against hope that their father wouldn't intentionally punish _Sam_ like that for Dean's mistakes.

For his own peace of mind, Dean is going to choose to believe that Dad couldn't come for him any sooner than tonight.

When Dad eventually stops for gas, Dean jumps out of the car and dashes into the convenience store, crossing his fingers that they have what he wants. Thankfully, he's not disappointed, and he spends a few of the dollars he has in his wallet, not on after-dance burgers and shakes for himself and Robin, which is what he had planned for his cash, but rather on a little snack cake and a pack of birthday candles.

Sam has been watching him through the car window, a little panicked and unwilling to let his brother completely out of his sight so that they don't get lost from each other again. He only relaxes when Dean comes loping back towards the car, a plastic bag in his hand and a shit eating grin on his face. Dean slides back into the rear seat and Sam's face splits into a huge smile when he sees what his brother has brought with him.

It only takes a few seconds for Dean to unwrap the little Swiss Roll and stick a candle in the center, lighting it with the Zippo from his pocket.

"Make a wish, Sammy," Dean instructs him, his green eyes flooded with warmth and affection.

Sam shakes his head and takes the candle back out, extinguishing it by waving it in the air and then discarding it out the window.

"It already came true," he says, leaning against his big brother's chest as he splits the cake between the two of them. "You and me against the world, Dean."

Dean is too choked up to answer, but he wraps his arms around his little brother and nods his head, knowing that Sam can feel it, and neither of them speak as the sweet taste of chocolate in their mouths washes away all the fear and bitter feelings that they have swallowed down for the past two months.

He's also pretty sure that Dad's eyes are a little watery when he gets back into the car and watches his sons through the mirror.

/

They're eighteen and fourteen.

They are far away from Fairfax, Indiana and Truman High by the time Dad has them settled in their new temporary home. Sam has locked himself in the bathroom, unwilling to either see or speak to his obtuse, control freak father or to his stupid, idiotic martyr of a brother.

Sam's emotions are already riding on the hormonal teen angst roller coaster as it is at his age. Right now he is more than upset about being dragged away from Truman, just when he was finally starting to fit in. He's also still deeply worried about how his good friend Barry is going to make it there on his own, without Sam there to defend him from the asshole jocks that made the poor kid's life hell.

Sure, Sam had taken care of Dirk the Jerk, but there was still an entire school filled with merciless and heartless bullies who had nothing better to do than pick on the shier and weaker kids. Not for the first time Sam resents his father for their lifestyle of hauling the brothers around from place to place.

On top of that, Dean has just informed him that he wasn't planning on registering at the new local high school on Monday morning. He was simply _done_ , he told his little brother. Tired of all the drama that came with the life of a student and tired of sitting on the sidelines while Dad went out and hunted on his own.

Something changed him at Truman. Dean was eighteen now and more than anxious to be out with their father full time instead of wasting his days sitting in a classroom when he had no desire to continue his education.

Sam is beyond angry and upset with both his father and his brother over this latest development for a number of reasons.

For one, every single day Dean becomes just a little more like their dad. Job obsessed and driven. Ready, willing and able to throw himself into the path of potential pain and destruction, without a thought to what it would do to the people that he left behind if something happened to him.

But it was actually _worse_ with Dean.

Whereas Dad did the job as part of his quest to find their mother's killer, dedicated to, but not dictated by it, Dean _enjoy_ _s_ the hunt. He loves the adrenaline rush and the euphoria of making the kill. Pleased from head to toe whenever he has the opportunity to gank some evil son of a bitch that would harm an innocent.

Secondly, _and this was something Sam wasn't about to admit to_ , if Dean wasn't forced to go to school with him, that meant that his big brother was going to be gone just as much as Dad was, now that they would be hunting together.

Not that Sam needs to be watched over or anything, but he would be less than honest if he didn't at least acknowledge to himself that he doesn't want to be left behind all alone while his family was out doing who knows what, who knows where. It has always been bad enough when it was just Dad that was in the wind.

Sam isn't sure how he was going to be able to handle not knowing whether or not his brother was okay.

But the thing that really upsets him most of all was how _easily_ Dad had agreed to Dean quitting school.

He hadn't even made a token protest when informed that his firstborn, so close to graduating, was just simply finished with academia. It wasn't as if Dean had ever expressed any interest in his schoolwork. Quite the opposite actually, and if Sam had been in a more charitable mood, he might have been willing to admit that, from his father's perspective, Dean's announcement was not wholly unexpected.

That didn't mean that Sam wasn't furious at his father for not even summoning up the barest of the commands that he was so quick to give on every other topic of their lives, to ensure that his oldest son at least had a high school diploma to fall back on when they were done hunting.

As Dad has continuously assured his sons that they would be one day, once Mom's murderer was found and justice had been delivered.

Of course, Sam isn't an idiot.

He has known forever that their family would never be free from the hunting life, no matter who they killed. Dad was a hunter until the end. You could see it in his eyes and the way he now viewed the world around him, and sadly, Dean was becoming the exact same way.

This was it for them. They were never getting out, and Sam absolutely refuses to follow down that same path because he wants more out of life than scars, nightmares and an early bloody death.

Sometimes, Sam wonders if he's the only one of the three of them that really sees just how whip smart his older brother is.

Dean is a damn _genius,_ and there isn't anything he couldn't be if he chose to. To just throw away all of his natural intelligence for a life serving as second in command of the Winchester Army makes Sam sick to his stomach. Sam prides himself on his intellect, but he's at least honest enough to admit that his knowledge comes from endless hours of study and concentration.

When he actually bothered to do them, Dean had never needed to work as hard on his studies as Sam does. The older brother could pick up anything with enviable ease, and once he heard something or read something, it stayed with him always. The fact that he was settling for a hard and dangerous life when he could have the world at his feet makes Sam both devastated and nauseous.

Not only that, but he was _pissed_.

Well and truly pissed off, because Dean had God given talent and brains and he should be using them for something other than getting his head bashed in every time they went against an angry spirit. Dean should be out there inventing something that would save the world.

Curing cancer or building a better fucking mousetrap.

Anything other than wasting his life as cannon fodder for an unwinnable war that he was dragged into as a traumatized four year old.

Until he can see that for himself, Sam is content to sit on the edge of their new bathtub of the week and refuse to talk to anyone. More than happy to ignore the jerks he's related to until they pull their heads out of their asses long enough to come to their senses.

Dean lets him sit there and stew for almost an hour before Dad announces that he was going out to pick up dinner for them all.

John's already tired from the hunt he had just completed and the drive between picking up his boys and getting them settled down in the new town. All he had wanted was to have a quiet meal with his kids and enjoy their company, but once again Sam had to get a wild hair up his ass about something and the weary father just doesn't have the energy to take on the verbal battle with his youngest right now.

Once the Impala's engine fades in the distance, Dean takes a deep fortifying breath and barges directly into the bathroom without knocking. Startling and annoying his little brother who yelps and growls at the intrusion. Dean doesn't care if the kid is put off by his entrance. The little brat has been given enough time to pout already.

"Sammy, whatever is eating you, let it go. I'm not changing my mind."

Sam scowls and turns his back towards his brother. His arms crossed and shaking his head, not in the mood to talk for a change.

"Just get out and leave me alone, then," he snarls, drawing in a shuddering breath. In a quieter voice, one that sounds suspiciously close to him as a younger child, he finishes "You know you're gonna anyway."

Some of the irritation bleeds out of Dean hearing that. Sam might be a remarkably mature fourteen year old most of the time, but he's still just a scared little boy occasionally when it comes to his family. Monsters and evil, Sam can handle. His brother's disappearances and his father's disappointment, he still has trouble facing.

"I'm not leaving you, Sammy," Dean assures him gently, crossing into the room to sit on the lowered toilet seat lid and placing a warm hand on his brother's still small back.

"Yeah, I'll be hunting with Dad more," he continues, "but not all the time. I'm gonna work it out so I get a job whenever I can and stay behind with you as much as possible until you're done with school.

Sam doesn't say anything to indicate that he's a little relieved by hearing these words from his brother. He's not one to allow himself to show weakness to either Dad or Dean when he can help it. They already treat him like this tiny fragile creature that needs constant protection.

Still, it's nice to know that Dean is planning on sticking around even if he won't be going to school.

"It'll be better. You'll see," Dean promises. "Can't tell me you wouldn't be excited to see some more money coming in. We'll finally be able to do some of the things you've been dying to try. It'll be great, kiddo."

Sam finally turns around enough to see the plea for understanding in his brother's eyes. For whatever reason, Dean has made his decision, and nothing Sam either says or does is going to change that.

For a kid that is heavily contemplating Mr. Wyatt's words about the choices everyone should make in life for themselves, he grudgingly admits that he hasn't extended the same courtesy to his brother.

"Yeah, okay, Dean," he says, his voice heavy with resignation.

Happier, Dean grins as he ruffles Sam's hair, making his little brother pull back with an annoyed frown that only lasts for the obligatory second before he gives a small smile of his own.

"It's like I always say, Sammy," Dean says, hooking an arm around him. "It's you and me against the world."

"Sure," Sam answers, forcing a smile, even though maybe he feels it a little less right now than he ever has before.

/

They're nineteen and fifteen.

Normally Sam would be happy about spending some time in Lincoln, since that is where Caleb lived when he wasn't on the road, and both of the Winchester brothers enjoyed the company of the young hunter that was practically a member of their family.

But this time, Caleb was out in Maine on a job of his own, and pretty deep in it from what Uncle Bobby had said, so when there was a rash of killings in the general area, John and the boys had been called in to see if they could help.

At least they had the advantage of staying in Caleb's house, instead of their usual motel of the week. Sam had spent a lot of time there over the years, and it wasn't quite a second home, but it was a better option than another no-tell motel. That didn't mean that he wasn't still pretty pissed off at his dad for refusing to enroll him in a local school for a bit.

Sam had been to the school near Caleb's house on a couple of occasions, but Dad was adamant that their stay would only last as long as the hunt did this time.

His father's pig headed refusal was especially grating to the young teen. Actually, _everything_ seemed to grate on Sam's nerves lately. It might have had something to do with all of the high octane coffees that he was guzzling down steadily during the day, figuring that if they were just here on a milk run, might as well get it over as fast as possible.

That meant that Sam was constantly feeling twitchy and irritable. The pressure on him from his father and brother to make headway on the research, which was _his_ part of this particular hunt, increasing with each incoming phone call. It was getting to the point where Sam was having a hard time keeping a civil tongue in his mouth, even knowing that any insubordination on his part would only result in his father coming down hard on him.

Uncle Bobby had express mailed some books he had on the possible identification of the monster that the family was hunting. It would have been a much bigger help to Sam if the salvage man had sent some that were actually in _English_ , for pete's sake. Maybe Bobby could speak Japanese, but it didn't mean that everyone else could in the hunter world.

Sam was still struggling to get a handle on Latin, and the last thing he wanted was to take on another impossible language.

Between Dad's decreasing patience and preponderance of orders, a rising body count without an end in sight, triple red eye shots of caffeinated adrenaline riding shotgun in his veins, five days running with too little sleep and lore books that were bourbon stained and written in gibberish, Sam was simply _done_ with the world.

And it really didn't help that his brother was being a _dick_.

Ever since Dean started hunting full time with Dad, Sam's big brother has become more and more like their father as far as the family business was concerned. Where Dean used to have a better understanding of the stress that the demands on Sam's time took on him, the older Winchester brother was now less and less patient of the younger one's complaints and struggles.

Dean never came right out and said it, but Sam could tell that his older brother was acquiring the same irritation over their youngest family member continuously failing to pull his own weight on the jobs. It wasn't Sam's fault that, the older he got, the harder he needed to work to keep his grades perfect.

That was something that happened as you progressed through high school.

Just because Dean had never worried about class rankings and report cards, ultimately choosing to just bail on education altogether, didn't mean that Sam was about to follow in his footsteps.

So when Dean repeatedly calls for updates on the progress of Sam's work, he can't help it if he's a little short tempered and irritable with his brother. He tries to tamp it down, really he does, because the second time he snaps back an answer, Dean's voice, warm and concerned over the phone, asks if he's okay, and if he needs his big brother to come back and help.

Sam, a little shamefully now, waves him off, annoyed with himself that he's unnecessarily worrying his sibling, but the frustration and desire to do something other than track down obscure pieces of Japanese folk lore has the young boy at his wit's end.

Little did he know how interesting his life is about to get.

She's so beautiful, the first time Sam saw her. Graceful and willowly, her strawberry blond hair pulled off to the side, giving him full view of her pearlescent skin and slender neck. He catches a flash of her as she strides by where he's stationed at the coffee cart, but it's not until he's inside sitting at a table that he gets a better look while she peruses the magazine shelves.

He also blushes to the tips of his ears when she senses his stare and turns to give him one of her own, and Sam is instantly smitten by the strangely pretty girl.

A last minute plea to his big brother, the one that has guided him through all awkward parts of his life, gives him some less than helpful advice on approaching her, because Sam is an awkward nerd that has zero confidence around a girl and he's pretty sure that she can smell his loser-ness that permeates the air around them.

Sam isn't so blind that he doesn't see that he's not the smooth talker around the fairer sex that his brother is. All he has managed to do is trip and stumble over his own tongue as he less than skillfully initiates conversation.

In retrospect, he shouldn't have been surprised when he's initially rebuffed, because his pick up line isn't exactly the stuff of legends. But still, he does eventually manage to utilize his unsuspected martial arts skills to defend her honor outside the library. Something else that Dean has instructed him in.

So, in the end, score one point for the tutelage of his big brother after all.

At her invitation, he followed her home for a little first aid and hopefully something more, still astounded with his good fortune that this beautiful creature seems interested in _him_.

Of course, he should have known that his luck wouldn't be good enough to ensure that Amy wasn't actually a _literal_ creature, which she most certainly turns out to be.

Only Sam Winchester would be unlucky enough to actually fall for the thing that he has spent days researching and that his father and brother are hunting. How do you explain to anyone, especially your gung-ho hunter family that your first kiss is with a Kitsune?

But Sam finds a real kinship with Amy.

They are both kids raised on the road, with a single parent that can be less than gentle at times. Uprooted from place to place.

Always the freak that Sam feels all too often, even without the supernatural reminder. How many times, under the cover of darkness while he sleeps next to his brother, does Sam get the chilling sensation that not everything is quite right with him?

And now Amy has killed her own mother to save him, so when push shoves, he can't find the wherewithal to end her life, or even tell his father or brother about her. She's still an innocent too, regardless of what Dad says about hunting being black and white.

Sam sometimes worries, without any real reason to think so, that he also has had the misfortune to be born something terrible that he has no say in. And having never hurt an innocent and, what's more, never feeling the desire to do so, he would have wanted the benefit of the doubt too.

Amy is packed and long gone while Sam sits in the now deserted cabin and desperately tries to come up with the best possible next move.

The body needs to be taken care of, and Sam is still green as a hunter, and after watching a kill be made to ensure his safety, maybe a little green around the gills as well. He knows without needing to be told that Dad is going to have to be given a believable reason to stop the hunt, now that the threat is gone, and it's not as if he's just gonna take Sam's word for it.

John Winchester would freak right the fuck out if he knew what his youngest had been up to this evening, and Sam's pretty sure that he won't be able to stand the level of disappointment that's coming his way once his father is privy to the multitudes of failures on Sam's part right now.

Knowing that there was only one thing he can do, he pulls out his phone and calls his brother.

They have a code between them when they don't want others to know what they're talking about. Dean's still riding around in the car with Dad, and Sam uses it because he can't risk his father catching wind of what was actually happening.

No one wants that level of heat.

Without skipping a beat, Dean goes into action immediately. Somehow convincing their dad that Sam needs help to finish with the research and he talks Dad into being dropped back at the motel while Dean meets Sam at the library.

After coming up with a reasonable plan, together they burn the body, fortunately without being noticed, and Dean's smooth tongue makes things square with Dad when they call to check in, spinning the biggest of tall tales about how the boys had seen the target and just gone for it. No time to swing back for their father when lives were at stake. Throwing Dad's words back at him without shame because at this moment it serves their purpose.

Dad does not like it, at all, and there's going to be some hell to pay for both of them afterwards for bucking the chain of command, but for all intents and purposes, they get away with what had really taken place.

Dean swears them both to secrecy once he presses upon his brother the importance of _never ever ever_ doing shit like that alone again.

"It's you and me against the world, Sammy," he growls, as his finishes shoveling dirt over the burned body of Amy's dead Kitsune mother. "Don't you ever forget that."

And Sam promises that he won't.

/

They're twenty-one and seventeen.

Sam is in complete and utter shock as Dean drags him through each room of the little house. On some level, the younger brother is still slightly suspicious of the fact that maybe they shouldn't be in here in the first place.

But Dean actually has the keys, so it's not like they broke in, and eventually he decides that it's just because the idea of settling down for an entire year is hard to accept since it really is a dream come true for him.

It's not anything special, as far as houses go. Two small floors with a slightly scary looking unfinished basement. A real vanilla box with no personality to speak of. It could use some paint since Sam can see several places on the walls where the previous occupants used to have things hanging.

To Sam, it's the most beautiful place he's ever been in.

Dean is still talking a mile a minute as they take the tour, and when he triumphantly offers Sam the larger upstairs bedroom all for himself, the younger brother's heart swells with such love that he thinks he might just burst on the spot.

Sam isn't quite ready to be fully excited about it all just yet. He's not so selfish that he doesn't realize just how much of a lifestyle change this is going to be for his brother. Dean's not one for getting attached to a place, and Sam wonders how he's going to deal with not being able to pack up the car and move on if life here goes south.

It's not just the house either.

As Dean talks on and on, Sam comes to the realization that not only will he be attending the same school for the entirety of his senior year, an idea that he has only allowed himself to ponder in his dizziest of daydreams, but that the school itself is highly accredited and will go a long way into helping Sam get his pick of colleges next year.

It's almost too much and, for a moment, Sam pinches himself to make sure that he's not actually dreaming.

Only this morning he was debating the merits on actually finding a way to leave his family behind, never thinking in a million years that either his father or brother would even conceive of a life where Sam can have a little normal. Now that this option has been presented to him, he finds himself feeling more than a little ashamed of how he has underestimated their love for him and how easily he was planning on letting them go.

For the first time, he thinks that maybe he's never really gotten just how much of a two way street family life really is. Still young, and by definition a little selfish and immature, he knows that he has fought and struggled for his family to understand him a little more, but now he wonders just how much effort he has actually put into understanding _them_.

It's not that he hasn't always known just how willing his brother has been to do whatever he could to make Sam's life a little easier, but Dean's determination to step away from hunting full time just so Sam can have a little stability is absolutely mind blowing.

Maybe it has something to do with how scarily weird their father was last night. In the back of his mind is the troubling thought that Dad has agreed to this because of whatever happened to him on that hunt he refuses to talk about, and since not much scares the mighty John Winchester, it almost takes some of the joy away from exploring their new residence.

In the end, Sam decides to focus only on the positive. A year where he can be just a normal kid and not the perpetual new freak that skips from school to school, never being allowed to put down roots. The possibilities are endless when he thinks about all the clubs he can now join without worrying about getting committed to something, only to have to let others down when he has to inevitably leave as usual.

Once Sam has been given the entire tour, he and Dean stand in their new kitchen, and the look on his older brother's face is that of the young child, wide eyed with excitement, that Dean was scarcely given the chance to be. He hands a second set of keys to Sam, already adorned with a key chain that matches his own and sporting a customized engraving on it.

Just a simple silver cylinder that says _You & Me Against The World_.

Sam swallows hard when he sees it. Knows just how much Dean has worked and planned to make this possible for him, and this time, chick flick be damned, he's going to make sure that his brother knows how much he agrees with the little sentiment on the key ring he will hold onto forever. He throws his arms around his brother's neck and hugs him tight, willing all of his affection into his embrace.

"Always."

 _/_

 _Whoosh..._ Thump Thump

 _Whoosh..._ Thump Thump

 _Whoosh..._ Thump Thump

After ten days of vigil by his brother's bedside, the noise of the ventilator has become ingrained in Sam's mind for eternity. A steady push and double thud reminding him every few seconds of Dean's continuing need for a machine to keep him breathing.

It's hard to try and concentrate on his thoughts when he's already emotionally wrecked, and the ventilator and the heart monitor are constantly competing for attention in contrasting rhythms. It's even harder for Sam to sit by and be forcibly reminded every day that his pure energy, larger than life brother, the guy that kicks in doors, kills monsters and goes through life with guns blazing, isn't even capable right now of the simple task of taking in air without assistance.

Of course there are other noises that made up the steady buzz of the hospital atmosphere.

The constant ringing of the phones at the nurses station. A never ending stream of announcements made over the PA system that alert the staff for each new emergency. Shoes clattering down the hallways, doors and drawers constantly being slammed shut.

The undercurrent of a hundred conversations being held that give you the impression that the people speaking are trying to keep their voices down, but they never really succeed.

In the Intensive Care Unit, where Sam's brother lay unconscious, the soft undertone of discussions were usually of the unhappy variety, and the sounds of tears and anguish were becoming all too common and unnerving.

Dean's doctors are trying to be reassuring about his condition. All things considered, Sam's big brother has vastly exceeded their expectations so far, and they are _guardedly optimistic_ that he is on the verge of regaining consciousness at any time.

When phrases like _Traumatic Brain Injury_ and _Cerebral Edema_ are bandied about, loved ones tend to grasp for any positive they can as they sit bedside of a coma patient.

A veritable horde of various medical professionals stream in and out of Dean's tiny ICU room at regular intervals during the day and night. Sam's not sure how anyone can get enough rest to recuperate from their injuries with the endless prodding and poking and testing that is done so frequently.

He's not even the patient and the constant interruptions have him worn out and bedraggled.

At least they aren't worried about being kicked out at any moment, like they usually are when hospitals and fake insurance cards come into play. Pastor Jim has an emergency network set up for catastrophic injuries to the hunting community, and the paperwork that Dad filled out when they arrived, and the card he presented, are legit.

Dean will get all the treatment he needs and more for once. It's cold comfort when the reason is lying stock still and pale against the sterilized background of the ICU.

As each hour passes, it becomes more and more difficult for Sam to watch over his comatose brother. Dean's face is pasty white beneath the snaking tubes of the ventilator in his mouth. Even compared with the stark white bed linens, his pallor is obvious, his freckles standing out more than ever.

With his face calm and placid, his eyes closed with just the tiniest tinge of pink on his eyelids, Dean looks achingly young.

Hardly the tough hunter and protector that has watched over Sam and taken care of him all their lives.

Sam thinks, with real pain in his chest, that although Dean can act childish on occasion as part of his personality facade, he's always been this huge, strong presence that could make his little brother feel safe, no matter what their physical ages were.

Dean is not this small, sickly wan kid that is lying still and helpless in a hospital bed, and it's incredibly difficult for Sam to wrap his head around reality right now.

With every muscle and joint in his body stiff and protesting, Sam cracks his neck and stretches, trying to get some feeling back in his limbs. His entire back is knotted and tense from sitting hunched over at Dean's side for so many hours a day.

It's gotten a little better lately, once the doctors began to speak about his brother's condition with some semblance of optimism instead of fatalism.

Thankfully it is now generally agreed upon and accepted that Dean will regain consciousness on his own, sooner rather than later, and that all the tests are showing very little chance of any permanent brain injury.

In light of that development, Sam has actually been able to get a few hours sleep a day in the motel room across the street from the hospital that Dad rented for them. For the first few days, Sam had refused to leave his brother, no matter how much his father and the medical staff were forcing him. He was determined that Dean would neither wake up, nor worse _die_ , without Sam by his side.

This was all _his fault_ , after all.

Overcome with an exhaustion so extreme that Sam was on the verge of collapse himself, the mechanical respiration rang in his ears like a harsh accusatory reminder of his full culpability in his brother's physical state.

 _You_...Did This

 _You_...Did This

 _You_...Did This

And he did.

It was true.

A simple matter of fact that Sam would not even think to try and deny, and a regret he will hold in his heart for eternity.

Because hindsight is twenty-twenty, he now fully realizes and admits that it had been a mistake of colossal proportions to get into Dad's truck with him for the six hour ride to the hunt in North Platte, Nebraska.

Common sense told Sam that he should just ride with Dean in the Impala, like always. That being in close quarters with his father after all that had gone wrong between them lately was just begging for trouble that none of them needed.

Dad wasn't even insisting on it, like he usually would when he was concerned about making sure that his youngest had all the orders and instructions that he felt were needed to carry out the job as swiftly and safely as possible. All John had done was suggest that he and Sam spend some time together, since it had been quite a while since they last hunted with one another.

Maybe it was because Sam was feeling determined that, if he was going to hunt, he was going to tackle it head on, like he usually did with everything else. That being on the job meant that he was accepting the chain of command, with his father's instructions followed and obeyed to the letter.

Like Dean had no problem doing.

Sam hadn't made his choice to stick with his family lightly, when it came at the cost of the dreams he had for himself for so many years. But he was nothing if not dedicated when he decided on a course of action, and once he had committed himself to The Life, he was going to be damned sure that he made a success out of it.

Not only for his brother's sake, but for his own.

Sam didn't like to do anything halfway. So he was going to make sure that he was in it to win it.

Unfortunately, Sam and John both have thick and stubborn blinders on when it comes to their ability to stow their crap. They hadn't even been on the road for thirty minutes before conversations on the hunt turned to sniping.

Then, like Dean was already suspecting in the car behind them, the sniping turned to heated words.

Then heated words into condemnations.

Condemnations to accusations.

And so on, and so forth.

Hurt feelings and disappointments were dredged up and enthusiastically flung about like paints on the canvas of modern art. Ranging in topics from the head butting of recent weeks all the way back to the early years of Sam's childhood.

With Dad's fingers gripping the wheel of the Sierra more and more tightly as he fought to keep control of his temper, and eventually losing the fight badly enough to throw out a few zingers of his own that knocked his kid back on his heels.

Any chance at professional conversation spiraled downward faster than either one of them could ever hope to recover from it. Verbal slings and arrows being throw back and forth across the cab of the truck with Winchester ingrained speed and accuracy.

No prisoners being taken and absolutely no quarter given.

If the job had been further away, or if the trip was expected to take longer than what the Winchesters considered a simple milk run, John might have pulled over and let his youngest out of the truck so that tempers could cool down and reasonable behavior could prevail.

Unfortunately for them, a six hour drive was just a drop in the bucket for a road trip, and the lives hanging in the balance always trumped a need for personal time and space for a hunter.

As they approached North Platte, all hope of a calm and professional performance had gone totally out the window.

To be fair, Sam realized that it was all on him.

Dad, once they were at the site, was all business. Never one to let his personal emotions get in the way of his responsibilities once he was actually on the job, John Winchester switched gears easily from annoyed and aggravated parent into hunter extraordinaire.

For Sam, still young, impetuous and harboring a bruised psyche from all of the latest tussles, it wasn't quite as easy to let go of the recent conflicts.

Dean had recognized, right away, that his father and brother had gone tripping merrily down the warpath, just from the twin looks of hostility and frustration on their faces. Knowing that Dad would get over himself once the job was started, without any need for interference from his firstborn, Dean had concentrated his efforts into talking Sam down off the emotional ledge, but to no avail.

Sam was firmly entrenched in his foxhole of self righteousness, and anyone getting in his path was in danger of having their head figuratively blown off, instantly becoming a war casualty.

If Sam had just kept his mind on his _job_ , and not his lingering resentment over his father putting a hunt over being at Sam's graduation.

 _Or_ Dad's steadfast refusal to share the details of that hunt with either son, especially when it was crystal clear to all of them that something profound had happened.

 _Or_ even just acknowledged that both brothers had been sick with fear over seeing their father worked over so badly that it had been almost a week before he could get out of bed without assistance.

Then maybe, when he was supposed to, Sam would have been paying more attention to his surroundings on a hunt, and his brother wouldn't have needed to come to his rescue, and been hurt so critically in the process.

Not that any of the bad blood between Sam and Dad really mattered anymore.

Not with Dean lying comatose in the Intensive Care Unit. Head injury, fractured collarbone and a leg broken in two places. Hooked up to machines, with tubes crisscrossing all over his young body like some sort of life support superhighway.

Sam shifted again, twisting his lanky body into a position that was slightly less pretzel shaped than it had been for the few minutes he had allowed his eyes to close. Lifting his arms above his head, he took a tentative sniff of his shirt and his nose wrinkled in disgust.

It's not that Sam was unclean, having just had a shower that morning and donned clothes that Dad had seemingly laundered for him at some point.

It was the fact that he couldn't seem to divest himself of that odor clinging to him that was distinctively _hospital._ An unpleasant mixture of disinfectant chemicals, sanitizers, stale bleached linens, sweat and sickness.

Although he did appreciate the small blessing of having fresh clothing to change into now.

Since their arrival, their father had been equally splitting his time between the hospital room of his critically injured son, and somewhere else that he didn't bother to share with his youngest.

At first, Sam had been furious that his dad could be anywhere other than right at Dean's bedside, and when John had left initially, all his youngest son wanted to do was hunt the man down and drag him back to Dean, kicking and screaming if he had to.

But then he realized, after spotting the Sierra parked in the lot just beneath the windows of the ICU and never moving as time passed, that his father never actually left the hospital at all. Sam could only guess at first what he was doing with the rest of his time.

As the days went on, it became a little clearer.

Dad seemed to always be one step ahead of Sam in the information department when it came to Dean's condition, so the boy could only imagine that his tenacious pit bull of a father was spending his time haranguing the medical staff for updates. Dad was also regularly bringing Sam food and drinks that he usually rejected until he was ordered to consume them.

He also fought to have Sam allowed to remain after visiting hours were over. Not that Sam was going _anywhere_ , regardless of what anyone said, but he had been more than grateful when Dad's powers of persuasion and intimidation had made it possible for him to remain by his brother's side without more of a fuss.

His father had also been insistent that his younger son sleep occasionally, and he was the one to badger the staff into getting Sam blankets and a pillow for the recliner next to Dean's bed that Sam had lived in for the first week. Dad stayed with them as well, but had insisted that he was fine with the less than comfortable hard chair that probably did nothing good for his back.

Now that Dean was relatively on the road to recovery, Sam had been persuaded to spend a few hours a day sleeping at the motel, where he found his duffel refilled with clean clothes and extra toiletry supplies. While he was away, he knew that their father had taken his place in the recliner. Neither of them willing to allow Dean to be alone even for a second.

Still, with all that had been done to get Sam away from the pungent atmosphere of the hospital, he still seemed to _smell_.

It stuck to him heavily. In his hair and his clothes. Seeping out of every pore until he was sure that he would never get rid of it again. With a pang of sadness, he yearned for their little house.

The fresh scent of orange that he and Dean used to clean the floors and counters. Almost floral clean linen scent of their laundry, not tainted by illness. The lingering aroma of vanilla and almond in his bedroom.

Something good cooking on the stove in the kitchen, while his big brother warbled out off key strains of mullet rock, screaming into an invisible microphone just to make Sam laugh.

Sam's gut clenched as a painful little whimper escaped his mouth without his consent at the memory.

Rubbing a hand down his face, he swallowed hard and then leaned over to take Dean's clammy right hand between both of his own. Gripping it tightly as he pressed it against his own forehead.

"Come on, man. Please just wake up already. _Please_."

Dad came back into the room just then. Posture still rigid in Marine stance, with his impossibly broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt. His dark ringed eyes swept across Dean's motionless body first, visually assessing his firstborn's unchanged condition before doing a numbers inventory check of the vitals machines.

Only when he had assured himself that nothing was further amiss or declining did he turn his gaze on Sam, letting out the now regular deep sigh of what could only be a mixture of frustration and anger.

Sam was used to it by this point, it being his father's go-to reaction on first seeing his younger son every time he walked back into the room, so he simply turned his head away before the two of them got into it at the bedside of his unconscious brother.

Sam got it. He did.

Dad was laying this entire fiasco firmly at Sam's feet, and he was right to do so, _to a certain extent._

Sam hadn't done his job like he should have.

Like he had been trained to for years, and the result was the very near loss of life of his big brother. Sam's lack of preparedness and attention to his surroundings and his environment had resulted in the very catastrophic outcome that their father had always feared.

Of course, he argued with himself, if Dad didn't force his sons to do these jobs in the first place, Dean wouldn't have been injured either.

Right now they would be back at home in Sioux Falls, perfectly safe and sound. Dean at the salvage yard, probably working on his next incredible rebuild, and Sam getting a head start on preparing for his first semester of classes.

Sam was willing to shoulder his share of the blame, and then some more besides, because it _was_ his lack of attention to the job he had undertaken that was responsible for his brother putting himself in harm's way.

When, _and it was when, not if,_ Dean woke up, no amount of absolution on his brother's part was going to make Sam feel any less than a complete failure as a hunter or brother when it came to his conduct during this gig.

Dad was right to be pissed at him as well.

How many times over the years had he impressed upon both of his sons that it was their job to watch each other's back? How many times were they told that they worked as a team? That each of them had a job to do, and they could only effectively do their own job if the other one did theirs?

Sam already knew that when his father wasn't entirely engulfed in worry over his firstborn's physical condition, he was itching to take his belt to his youngest, and Sam wasn't planning on fighting him when the time for that inevitably came either. More than feeling deserving of any punishment his father wanted to hand out.

Maybe, Sam thought with dark humor and more than a little dry sarcasm, he should push Dad into doing it, right here, right now, in the hospital room.

Knowing Dean, his big brother would probably rally and wake up, just to be able to try and talk Dad out of it.

If only it was that easy.

But, as usual, Dad didn't say anything to Sam. He simply pushed a bag with some lunch near Sam's clenched hands, the steady stern look in his eyes leaving no doubt that his son was expected to eat what was brought him. He also put a styrofoam drink container on the adjustable table next to the bed that gave off the pungent smell of the caustic hospital coffee that he and Sam had been living on.

"Thanks," Sam said quietly, looking up just long enough to see Dad's acknowledging nod.

John then sat down in his usual chair, leaning back a little as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned his attention to his deathly still son in the bed. Observing him a little more closely, it wasn't hard for Sam to realize that his father looked more tired and old than his youngest could ever recall seeming him. Even when John had been critically injured himself.

It was unnerving.

Sam wasn't expecting any conversation with his father. Except for the initial fight, John had barely spared him a dozen words in the almost dozen days they had been together. He simply spent his time in the room watching Dean with an unrecognizable look on his face. The younger son tamped down his hurt over essentially being ignored by his dad.

He knew what he was in John's eyes.

The disappointment.

The rebel.

The weakest link in their family chain.

The Achilles heel of Dean, the real hunter and golden boy of the Winchester clan.

All the more reason why Sam had made the phone call to Mr. Hopkins. Come September, the lesser son would be far away in California, where he could no longer be a drain on the family. Without him around, Dad and Dean could hunt to their hearts' content without having to repeatedly yank Sam's lame ass out of the fire.

He had just about convinced himself that it was true.

 _Whoosh_...thump thump

 _Whoosh_...thump thump

 _Whoosh_...thump thump

Almost half an hour passed after Dad's arrival, with the two of them both mired in their own thoughts. Only after John noticed that Sam hadn't touched his food did he clear his throat and throw his youngest another pointed look.

Sam blinked quickly and looked down at the bag, not really feeling hungry, but knowing that he needed to keep his strength up if he was going to be of any use to his brother in the days to come. He nodded his assent at his father and opened the bag, pulling out a now cold grilled chicken sandwich, an apple and a banana.

Under his father's watchful glare, he managed to choke down most of the sandwich, ignoring the fact that it too seems to smell and _almost taste_ like the pervasive hospital odor. The cafeteria seemed to be just as heavily imbued with the scent as everything else around him. But he needed the protein, so he endured it, finishing his meal off with the banana that was infinitely more appealing to what little appetite he had and saving the apple for later.

His coffee was almost cold as well by now, but he drank half of it anyway, because the caffeine was the only thing keeping him awake during the long hours parked by his brother's side. Tasting the burnt grounds on his tongue, slightly milky and sweetened, he wondered again, how his father seemed to know how he took his coffee.

He was pretty sure he had never told Dad, himself.

The rest of the day passes by slowly. Marked only with short bursts of interruptions of either Sam or John getting up to use the restroom. Or the frequent visits of medical staff doing what they needed to do to keep Dean clean and medicated. The doctors were even more _guardedly optimistic_ today, and for the first time, the two conscious Winchesters allowed themselves to feel real hope.

Dad leaves again after a five hour vigil, not sparing his younger son a word regarding his plans or destination as was now the custom. He simply gets up, smooths a hand across Dean's head as he leans over to press a quick kiss to his son's forehead, shoots Sam one quick glance and then he's gone again.

Alone once more with his comatose brother, Sam feels his chest both tighten with hurt as well as loosen up from the dissolving tension. It's an odd feeling. One he can't quite explain or describe.

All he knows is that he feels more lonely than he ever has in his entire life. He also knows that it's a feeling he was going to have to get used to.

/

John's never been a man of religion.

An ironic problem considering how he spends the majority of his time. A job that requires him to believe in things that he has been told all his life are just old wives tales and made up stories to scare children into behaving.

A lifelong pursuit that demands that he have actual faith in the folk lore legends that instruct him on how to take down the things that go bump in the night. Where he relies on his credence in rituals and spells to aid him and protect him while on the hunt.

As a young boy in Normal, he has vague memories of going to church with his parents.

Henry dressed in a sharp, well tailored suit with a jaunty fedora that he would respectfully remove for services, even sometimes dropping it on John's own head as he was led out of the church, his small hand held tightly in Henry's larger one.

Millie wearing one of her flattering wide skirted silk dresses, belted around her fashionably tiny waist. Pristine white gloves holding her clutch that perfectly matched her precariously high stiletto pumps.

The picture perfect happy family.

Later, in Lawrence, John also went to church with his mother and grandparents for a while. Millie still beautiful and stylish, but so much more sad and withdrawn. Eventually she had grown tired of the gossipy whispers and rude stares of the other attendees exchanging scandalous conjectures about her marital status, until she and John stopped going altogether.

When she remarried, she had wanted none of the church, choosing the inn in town to hold the humble service instead.

John's stepfather was not much of a church goer either, and in the end the new little family eschewed organized religion entirely, with John's Marine dog tags very clearly labeling him as _Non-Religious_ as a young man.

Mary also hadn't been one for religion, which surprises John now that he knows more about her life before him and the past of her family. Not that many hunters are fervent church goers, but there is a certain level of faith required to make your way in The Life.

As the little Winchester family in Lawrence, they had never bothered to take the boys to any sort of service. They hadn't even spoken of it, really. It just became one of those things that wasn't a part of their lives in any way, and since neither of them felt strongly on the matter, it just didn't come up in conversation.

Until one winter when Dean was three years old.

Somehow, the little boy had developed a bad chest infection which rapidly became a life endangering bout of pneumonia. John had known crippling fear before, as a civilian and especially as a Marine in the jungles of Vietnam, but nothing had prepared him for the abject terror of watching his child grow weaker and sicker.

Gasping and wheezing and fighting for every last breath.

While Mary had summoned the stamina to maintain a full time vigil at her baby's bedside, John had been crushed under the heavy depression of helplessness that engulfed him. Deranged and desperate in his inability to do anything to make his son better.

There was nothing worse than being a warrior with no way to win a battle, despite your willingness and desire to do anything and everything.

He supported Mary as much as he could. Fussing over her and running for tea and food when she allowed it, while she held her little boy's hand through the plastic isolation glove. But sometimes, the strength John needed to sustain him faltered, and it was then that he fled to the hospital chapel and began his relationship with any higher being that would listen to his pleas.

He would escape to the quiet confines of the small dimly lit room. It was non-denominational, so there were really no overt symbols of religion staring him in the face. Just some relatively comfortable long benches and warm wood everywhere. It could have been a meeting room for all that it lacked in stained glass and crosses.

It didn't matter to John.

All he had really needed was an out of the way place to gather his thoughts. To allow his inner mind the chance to say the things that he didn't permit to pass through his lips. Afraid that to actually speak of his all encompassing fears would be to give them birth and an opening to claim his child away from him.

In the small chapel, he unburdened himself, the weight of his terrors sliding off of him like water sluicing down his skin and, oddly enough, found that it helped him refocus, so that he was able to go back into Dean's room and be stronger for his wife and child when they really needed him.

He had even gone so far as to suggest to Mary once that she also take some time to compose herself and recharge, but he had been violently rebuffed.

John wasn't an idiot, so he let that particular sleeping dog lie after that.

He wasn't so egotistical to think that his pleas and mutterings had any direct influence on his boy's eventual recovery. After all, when you don't really give the concept of a deity any thought in your day to day life, it does tend to make one seem terribly hypocritical if you cling to prayer as the last act of a desperate man.

Which he certainly had been.

The day that Dean was declared well enough to go home, John had joyfully carried his son into the house, and if he was silently thanking anyone who might have been listening, he never again mentioned it.

Now here he was again.

Different hospital. Different chapel.

But the same reason.

A desperately ill son, whose recovery was a long way from being guaranteed, and the last act of a desperate father who had failed, once again, to keep his child safe from the things that could and would harm him.

This time, the chapel was a little different. A little more on the traditional side. Replete with a large crucifix over the alter, a stone statue of the Virgin Mary off to the side, and kneelers attached to the still comfortable long benches.

But that was okay, because John was different too.

No longer inclined to dismiss spirituality directly out of hand after all he had seen and done.

This time he got on his knees and prayed. Fully and completely. With no shame and no reservation as to his intentions. As a man who used holy water and rosaries on a daily basis, he had had his pick of them to choose from. Wrapping a particularly pretty onyx bead set around his trembling fingers as he sent up a plea for Dean's recovery.

Optimistically hopeful that someone was on duty answering the phone in the attic, because John's next call would be to the basement, and he had already made his peace with that decision.

No matter what, his children came first. Even if the price of their lives came at the cost of John's own. He didn't even flinch when coming to that conclusion, and fortunately for himself, he had the advantage of knowing how to go about it, unlike parents who were forced to endure the loss of a child.

John wasn't so blind as to think that this entire fiasco was not his fault.

As much as he wanted to be able to lay the blame at the feet of his youngest son for the boy's absolutely inexcusable lack of attention to his surroundings and disregard of the training he had been given for almost ten years, John knew that he needed to accept that it was because of his own continuing need to hunt that was the reason why his firstborn was fighting for his life.

During his more rational periods of thought, he embraced the reality of being the guilty party.

After all, regardless of what either one of his children had done on the job, as their father, and their leader, any failure fell directly onto his shoulders. That was the burden he accepted when he made the decision to allow his boys to hunt by his side, instead of keeping them safe in their home.

As John's thoughts became more fervent and increasingly intense, he found himself having to repeatedly banish the troubling, creeping suggestion that was forcing itself over and over again to find a fertile enough dark corner of his mind to plant roots. Like poisonous toadstools, spouting out toxic gases of suspicion and doubt, and leaving a black tar residue of distrust over his feelings about his little boy.

In the light of day, John knew with everything he had in him that his youngest son would never do anything intentional to harm his older brother. Sammy had practically worshiped the ground that Dean walked on since the day he was born. There had been more times than John was comfortable admitting that he himself had been jealous of the regard his baby boy had for his big brother.

More so than Sam had ever shown John in his eighteen years.

It's not that John didn't accept the fact that he wasn't exactly father of the year to his kids. That Sammy wasn't more attached to Dean than he was to his own dad simply because of how much John had chosen to be away from them and on the road hunting.

It had been a conscious choice, even knowing that he was harming his relationship with his boys in the process.

Maybe because Dean had always been so accepting and stalwart over John's absences. With Sammy growing colder and more resentful as the years went on, John had always had Dean's regard to fall back on when he felt himself unsure of a son's love.

Maybe it was because John had recognized early on that Sam was just more like John himself than Dean would ever be. Whereas John and Sam did what they felt they needed to, to suit whatever purpose lay in front of them, regardless of what the consequences might be, Dean allowed his heart and emotions for his family to dictate his actions.

John would never tell his firstborn how much he admired that about him.

That Dean's innate love and loyalty to Team Winchester was something so beautiful and pure in the nightmare of their family's history that it gave John real hope that somehow they might all survive this ordeal long enough to enact their revenge.

Dean was the very fabric of their existence. The glue that kept them together, when all else would force them apart.

Sam was always the rebellious one. From the time he could first speak he bucked against anything that his father and brother tried to make him do.

Sam could rebel because he had the luxury of never needing to worry about taking care of anyone else. Everyone had always taken care of _him_. He didn't really understand the concept of the worry that came along with being responsible for someone or something beyond his own desires.

But there was no longer any denying that there was also a very dark streak in Sammy.

One that ran so deep that it seemed anchored to his very core some days. In the past John had always dismissed it as a trait too similar to his own character flaws. Because he himself had led a less than honorable life during wartime, and still yet more during his years as a hunter when he might have straddled the line of good and evil on occasion to get the job done.

This past year of learning more than he ever wanted to know about his youngest child had forced John to take a good look at some hard truths. Ideas and concepts so troubling and so ridiculous that he hadn't wanted to give them any credence at all.

The father in him wanted to continue to believe that his little boy was simply just young and angry and dissatisfied with his life. Like many teenagers can be before they find their own footing as they grow up. Like John had been himself when he signed up and went off to war in the search for something with more meaning than a mundane existence as a small town mechanic.

But the hunter in him had been forced to face certain realities that shook him to his very roots.

There was a troubling real question about what the demon's influence over his son actually was already and, more disturbing, what it could eventually grow into.

John didn't want to believe that his son was in any danger of becoming something that he would be forced to hunt.

 _Couldn't_ believe.

He already knew, right down to his soul, that the day when he would raise a gun to his child could not be allowed to come.

It didn't matter what Sam did, or even what he could do in the future. John could and would be damned before bringing himself to take his son's life without first marching on Hell itself to keep that prospect from happening.

Unless it was to save the life of his _other_ son.

A thought so perverse and terrifying that to even allow himself to contemplate it would be to go insane, because how does a loving father _choose_ between his children?

Intellectually, he knew that Sam had not put Dean in danger in that house through any demonic or nefarious means. The boy was simply being careless, and Dean, _faithful and loyal Dean_ , had done what he always did, and that was whatever it took to keep Sammy safe.

Even at the risk of his own life.

And there wasn't really anything John could say about it without sounding like the world's biggest hypocrite either, was there? After all, wasn't he the one that had told his firstborn, over and over and over again, to watch out for and protect his little brother?

What was he supposed to say now?

 _Oh, sorry kiddo. My bad. Don't worry about Sam anymore._

Yeah, like that could happen.

Or how about?

 _Hey, Dean? There's a chance that your brother is part demon. Keep an eye on that, okay?_

At what point in _that_ conversation would Dean take a swing at his old man, just on principle alone?

The day would come when John would be forced to tell Dean what he had learned about Sam and Mary _and_ Azazel. A dark and dreary day when he would have to look his firstborn in the eye and confess that everything his son had grown up believing and having faith in was a lie.

John wrestled with that truth every minute of every day. He had started that conversation dozens of times.

On the phone.

In person.

And every single time he had dropped it, like a broken bottle of acid, before it really even had a chance to begin.

A more judging person would condemn John for keeping his son in the dark about things which very clearly and intimately impacted him. Telling him, quite correctly so, that Dean had every single right in the world to know every detail about his family's terrible secrets.

John trusted his firstborn more than any other person in the world, and if it wasn't for the fact that his biggest secret would be Dean's greatest pain, he would have confessed all to his kid the minute he found out.

He just simply couldn't bring himself to do it, and the weight of that decision was crushing his chest like a herd of elephants to the point where John could scarcely draw a full breath in his sons' presence anymore.

Dean would be destroyed emotionally in a million different ways. The boy existed for his family. Held his mother up to sainthood practically, and loved and protected his little brother with the fierceness of the strongest lion protecting his cub.

John wouldn't put it past his boy to stand against John himself if it benefited Sammy. And he might one day count on that.

How do you just dump these horrible truths on someone whose very survival depended on the passion and warmth of the family life that Dean wrapped himself in against the chill of the cold, cruel world around him?

John had lived with a greater degree of fear and unease for a few weeks now, and it wasn't getting any less painful for him to accept, so he knew that it would completely and utter annihilate Dean.

A long accomplished hunter, John had known right from the very start that the thing in Amherst was not a poltergeist.

Oh sure, it had all the calling cards of one. Enough so that any hunter paying attention would immediately come to that conclusion before tackling the problem. When you are in The Life, it starts to become second nature to read the signs and know at least the general realm of what you are about to step into.

A necessary sense to acquire if you are a hunter and want to keep breathing air.

What less seasoned hunters might not see, or at least ones who were not nearly as in tune with the demonic world as John was, were the subtle but very present omens of a demonic presence hovering in the same vicinity as the case. John wasn't the kind of man that believed in coincidences.

It had been sheer bravado and hubris on John's part that convinced him that he could handle things on his own, when he hadn't even had the full picture of what he was walking into.

At some point, over the past year, his desperation in protecting his children and saving his youngest son from an eternity of damnation had resulted in him becoming more careless on the job than he had ever been before. Even during his early years as an ignorant and novice hunter.

That mindset was purely the reason why he had drummed into his boys over and over again that they couldn't afford to let their emotions run wild on a hunt. That everything had to be seen in black and white when it came to the supernatural. No one could afford a second of hesitation, or indulge in any debate over gray areas when it came time to take down that things that didn't have a conscious or an ability to feel sympathy or empathy.

If it was a monster, you killed it. End of story.

But John needed answers. He needed specific information in his pursuit of Azazel, and real solutions as to how to take the demon out of their lives for good. Because John was fully and thoroughly convinced that it was the only outcome that was acceptable if he was going to save his little boy.

He knew that leaving for New York just at that particular moment was surely going to mean missing his son's graduation, but it was for Sam that he was going in the first place. His little boy would be hurt over his father's absence, more likely than not, but Sammy's future and safety far outweighed a high school ceremony.

No matter how much John ached to be there for his kid.

So he had tracked the demon down in Amherst, and with a skill that had only blossomed and grown over the years on the job, he had even managed to lure it to the relative safety of his warded lock-up a few miles away in Black Rock.

What John hadn't been expecting was the presence of two other demons as well. A mistake that nearly cost him his life when the sidekicks of the demon he had trussed like a Christmas turkey in his Key of Solomon approved Devil's Trap arrived to exact payback on the hunter that dared to take them on.

For three days John was held in his own storage unit, tortured to the point of death as three spawns of Satan used him as their personal chew toy. Why they didn't kill him outright, he didn't know. Although he suspected that Azazel knew that it would be more painful to let the distraught father live, knowing what the demon had done to his child, and fully expecting that there wasn't anything John could do about it.

During those three days, John had been subjected to pain and suffering like he had never imagined possible, but he endured it with a warrior's strength and resolve. Determined to keep himself conscious as much as possible if it meant that he could potentially glean even the tiniest scrap of information on how to win the battle he had been fighting for almost eighteen years.

If there was one thing to say about a demon, it was that they were overly confident in themselves, and as a result, they tended to be a little on the chatty side. By the time Jim, Singer and Caleb found him, barely clinging to life, John had been allowed to hear the full scheme regarding his child, and the other children like him.

Whether or not Azazel had wanted him quite that informed, John didn't know.

He did know, from years of experience, that demons lie. But the evilness and putrid rot that emanated from their words was too perverse and unholy to be discounted, as evidenced by John's frequent bouts of nausea and utter hopelessness every time he recalled them.

Recognizing the obscene truth from their confident sneers and the sickening pleasure that they took at his despair when sharing the details with him.

Taunting him that his training and teachings over the years were only serving to make their Boy King an even stronger leader for the darkness, once Sam had reached his full potential.

John wanted to discount their gleeful claims of being the one responsible for bringing Sammy closer to their anticipated fruition of his ascendancy. He wanted to be able to say, with complete confidence, that no child of his would ever fall into the path of evil.

That John's youngest child was a good boy. That Sammy was innately pure and would fight tooth and nail to stay on the path of righteousness.

He wanted that more than anything.

But too many times now, John had seen Sam's flashes of foreboding temper and streaks of maliciousness in his words and actions to be absolutely guaranteed the he would resist. After all, the powers of Hell were vast and aggressive, and over the years John himself had seen too many good men and women fall to the persuasion of evil.

John would fight, with everything he had in him, to keep his son on the straight and narrow, or he would die trying. He would remain firm in his confidence that his little boy only needed the care and love of his family around him to turn his back on Hell's plans for him, and John was going to hold onto his kid as tightly as he could for as long as he could.

But he also knew, when it came right down to it, he wouldn't let Sammy ever again have the chance to be the one responsible for getting his brother killed.

For both of their sakes.

/

Thirteen days after Dean was tossed over the second floor landing of a haunted Victorian house, he triggered his ventilator.

Sam had been fitfully dozing in the recliner when the alarms woke him up, and for a split second his mind flooded with panic, not knowing what was happening to his brother.

It took the combined assurances of two nurses, plus Dean's neurologist, to convince the weary, weak and sleep deprived kid that it was a good thing. Sam called his father's cellphone, surprised when Dad actually answered it on the first ring, and told him the news.

With the tests looking good, the horrible contraption and it's _whoosh...thump thump_ grating rhythm are removed from Dean and his room, and Sam hopes with all his heart that he never hears anything like it ever again. Not that he's not grateful that it has kept his brother alive long enough to start the road to recovery, but still.

For the rest of the afternoon, Sam and John kept vigil until they were finally rewarded with the heart stopping sight of vibrant green eyes slowly opening and desperately trying to focus. John smiles for the first time in almost two weeks as Sam runs out to grab anyone he can find to give his brother assistance.

When he runs back in, Dad is holding Dean's hand in one of his own, while the other smooths the limp, straggly remains of hair that survived the procedure to drain the accumulated fluid out of the older brother's head. There's a joke in the making there at some point, years down the road when this is all a distant memory.

It takes a few minutes for Dean to focus long enough to get his bearings, but eventually his vision clears and it's immediately apparent when he recognizes his father and brother in front of him, because the petrified wild look he has had on his face since he first regained consciousness is gone. Replaced with a soft smile, and the wave of pinched tension around the bright green eyes flows away effortlessly.

Dean clears his throat of the accumulated gunk that has built up over time from the vent, and he has enough strength to give a tiny head shake of refusal when his father offers him a cup of water. He takes in a deep breath, centers himself after his long sleep and looks closer at the still worried faces of his loved ones. Quirking up a small smile and knowing that he needs to prove to them that he'll be okay, he manages to croak out a few words.

"You look worried, fellas."

/

It seemed like forever since they had last been at home.

Although, in reality, less than a month has gone by, the trauma of their time away made the familiar comfort of the white wooden two story seem years in the past. A place where they were happy and whole, and nothing had managed to hurt them in almost a year of living.

Dean was starting to finally get restless after the long drive, even as the waves of medically induced drowsiness were making him loopy.

He had barely fussed earlier when Dad and Sam had maneuvered him into the back seat of the Impala, since his leg and shoulder casts prohibited any idea he may have had of at least riding shotgun in his baby, but he clearly was more than ready to get out of the car now.

Steady at the wheel, Sam brooding and pensive, he passes his father's truck when Dad pulls ahead to park up the street and then maneuvers the Impala up the driveway to park her next to the Camaro. Smiling when a sound of contented relief reaches him from the back as Dean seems to relax upon seeing their home.

By the time John has jumped out of his truck and jogged up the drive and over to the Impala, his firstborn is already starting to squirm, futilely attempting to shift himself into a better position to facilitate his removal from the car.

"Easy, Dean," Dad scolds, pulling the door open wide, as Sam opens his own door to get out. "Let us do the work, kiddo."

Dean wants to gripe.

Every part of his body is screaming in agony from the road trip, and he could really use a couple more pain pills even though he wasn't quite due for them yet. Instead he grits his teeth and waits patiently for his father to get into position to heft Dean's banged up body out of the car. He knows that this part is going to hurt.

They spend exactly ten seconds trying to allow Dean to stand on his good leg and limp to the house with assistance, but with the immediate way his face goes as white as a sheet and a thin film of sweat bubbles up on his upper lip, John refuses to go any further with the charade that his boy can make the trip upright.

In the end, he just slips his arms under Dean's middle back and knees, careful not to jostle the tightly wrapped shoulder and arm, and carries his son bridal style up the driveway and towards the house. Dean blushes nine shades of crimson over being ferried like a child, swearing up a storm that gets him a sharp reprimand from his father that makes his ears burn, and he desperately hopes that none of the neighbors are getting an eyeful of this embarrassing spectacle.

Sammy has raced ahead of them, pulling his set of keys from his jeans pocket and making sure that the door is unlocked and propped open so there are no impediments to their progress inside. Dean's protests are growing weaker and are being met with a roll of his father's eyes as he hauls his firstborn up the stairs, across the porch and into the front door.

You would think that John has never carried his son before a day in his life by the way the kid kicks up a fuss, but John's annoyance is tempered by his genuine relief over bringing his child safely home again. Like he once did on a much happier day, at a much happier place in his life twenty two years ago.

With the strength of a father's care and love, Dean is gently set down on the couch as if he weighs nothing more than a feather. It's true that almost a month on a liquid diet has caused _some_ weight loss for the young man, but John's arms are nonetheless sturdy, and the precious cargo of one of his children has never been too much for him to manage, regardless of their size.

Settling his son, John smooths a hand across Dean's slightly longer than normal hair, the bare patches combed over to hide them, and with his defenses lowered from exhaustion and encroaching pain, Dean's subconsciously leans into the touch, because it's not that often that his father is this demonstrably affectionate towards his eldest.

Before either of them know it, Sam is running back from the mud room with extra pillows and blankets, and they prop the pillows behind Dean's back and neck, taking great precautions to avoid any motion that would aggravate his injuries. When he is as comfortable as they are going to make him for the moment, Sam attempts to spread the blanket over him until Dean squawks.

"It's a thousand degrees in here, Sammy. I don't need extra fabric covering me, dude."

Blinking hard, Sam and John both realize that Dean is right. Summer in South Dakota can be just as hot as summer anywhere, and the house is suddenly stifling. Besides which, they can now clearly smell that particular odor of humidity and lack of use that a house can get when it doesn't have anyone living in it. As if the air itself has stood still from an absence of occupancy and human touch.

It's not a rotten smell, because Dean is house proud and had very meticulously made sure that nothing was left to decay or get old while they were on the job, but it is distinctly stale in the house at the moment.

Dad heads over to the window to turn on the A/C unit that keeps the living room fairly cool. The boys haven't used it a lot yet, since John frowns on too much pampering, preferring his sons to condition their bodies to endure mildly uncomfortable temperature shifts. There is a small film of dust on the filter that they can smell on the cold air that starts to pump through the room, but it soon clears out.

Meanwhile Sam has retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and Dean accepts it gratefully, especially when he sees that his pain management cocktail is also on offer. He's less enthusiastic about the plastic cup of applesauce that his father presses into his hand, but he takes it anyway and forces down as much as he can.

When Dad is in papa bear mode, it's best to just go along with what he says, and Dean knows that pain meds on an empty stomach don't promise anything good for anyone. It's not often that his father fusses over him, so Dean's going to shut his cakehole and do as he's told for the time being.

Dinner time is fast approaching, and while Dean is sated from the water and applesauce, happily well on his way to riding the narcotic wave, Sam's stomach growls with all the impatience of a young body that hasn't been fed as well as it should have been for a few weeks. John takes the hint and announces that he's making a run out for supplies and that he'll be back soon.

While Dad is gone on the food run, Sam fusses over his brother until Dean finally shoves him away in annoyance. He's going to remember this for the next time that Sam is under the weather and accusing Dean of being all mother hen on him.

The kid is just as bad as his older brother when it comes to taking care of an injured or sick sibling.

The pain cocktail kicks in enough that Dean feels himself start to float away, and he lets it happen, because although he was well enough to be discharged this morning without even needing to go for an AMA as is their usual practice, he's not going to lie to himself about still feel like shit on toast.

Sam takes advantage of his brother's unexpected, but not unwelcome, nap time to run some cleaning products around the surfaces of the house, smiling happily to himself when the pleasant citrus-y scent of their orange based home care products swirl in the air and replace the staleness and the lingering vestiges of hospital odor.

Once the house is relatively under control, and a load of Dean's dirty clothes is churning merrily in the washing machine, Sam runs upstairs and takes the most wonderful shower of his life. He's a little greedy with the hot water, but doesn't think anyone will mind today, and when he finally emerges in a cloud of steam, he almost feels like a human again.

Donning fresh clothes that come from his closet and not his smelly duffel, there's a much more bubbly spring in his step as he lopes downstairs to check on his brother, happy to see Dean start to shift awake. Simply because, these days, Sam can't get enough of seeing his brother's eyes wide open.

It might be corny and sappy and chick-flicky in a million different ways, but sue him. He's missed his brother like oxygen.

Dean manages to grab the remote, even in his less than mobile state right now, and turns on an _SVU_ rerun. Grinning from ear to ear when he sees his favorite lady detective on the screen. Sam laughs for the first time in weeks. A true full belly laugh that feels _so damn great_ that it's contagious and Dean can't help himself from joining in.

Flopping down in the overstuffed chair next to the couch, Sam props his feet up on the coffee table, ignoring his brother's obligatory glare for bad manners, and for a while the two of them just enjoy each other's company while they watch the serial crime show on TV.

Happy and companionable, they don't even notice their father's truck pull in at the sidewalk next to their driveway.

And they certainly don't notice him juggling his shopping and takeout into one hand, so he can grab their large pile of accumulated mail from where it's laying on the side of the porch.

/

"What the hell is this, Samuel?"

There's a thick white envelope in Dad's hands, and Sam can see enough of it to clearly recognize the Stanford logo in the return address position.

 _Shit_

All that careful planning. The secret phone calls and the emails and the surreptitious strategizing with Mr. Hopkins to avoid this specific confrontation.

Sam was promised over and over again that no correspondence from the school would be coming in hard copy.

The last time college letters made it into this house, it hadn't ended very well.

Sam's hands are trembling because he simply isn't ready for this.

The start of his fall classes is weeks and weeks away and he needed _time. Goddamn it_!

Time to figure out how he was going to break the news to his father and badly injured brother. Time to make them understand why he has chosen to go off on his own after all, despite all of the agreements they have in place between the three of them.

Realistically, he knew that his father was never going to be on board with any of Sam's ideas, but he had been hoping to get Dean on his side, once they were assured of his big brother's full recovery.

With Dean so hurt and sick for the past few weeks, talking about college wasn't even a blip on Sam's radar of priorities, and now here it was, staring him in the face and he just simply was not prepared to deal with the fallout.

The world as they know it comes screeching to a halt at his father's furious demand.

Heart speeding up in his chest, Sam feels like a trapped animal. Cornered and defenseless against two much larger and angrier predators.

Dad's face is full fury, the color of his skin darkening deep and red as his anger builds and surges like an active volcano preparing to erupt.

But it's Dean that Sam turns to, and the look of betrayal and heartbreak are so clearly etched in the pale skin of his still broken brother that Sam's stomach churns and he feels a wave of nausea begin to creep up his throat.

With his pulse fluttering like a guilty hummingbird, Sam desperately wants to apologize for his deception. Needing Dean's understanding and absolution like the oxygen that somehow Sam's body is forgetting to intake at the moment.

He lists against the door jamb between the living room and the stairs, clinging to the wood trim like a lifeline in rough emotional seas, while his legs go rubbery beneath him.

Somehow Sam manages to remain standing, if for no other reason than he's still convinced that if he falls, his brother will feel compelled to summon the strength to go to his aid.

Even betrayed and cast aside, Dean will never lay down the mantle of being his brother's protector.

Something that used to make Sam feel warm inside when the rest of his life left him cold and heartbroken, but now only fuels the shame that roils inside of him. Sam's intentions to leave for the good of his family may be noble on their face, but he knows that all his brother and father will see is a selfish child, too greedy for his own gratification to give back to the ones that have given him everything.

Sam tries to speak, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish on land, but nothing he could possibly say will make his brother understand why he has chosen this path. Not after everything they have talked about and discussed.

Certainly not after Dean just spent the better part of a month fighting for his life after putting it on the line to protect his little brother, only now to be abandoned by him.

"I thought we settled this matter," Dad finally barks out, and it's clear where he stands as he shoots burning eyes at his youngest son that threaten to melt Sam with their intensity.

Still ignoring his father, Sam begs with his eyes for his brother to say something. _Anything_. But Dean just shakes his head in disbelief, as if he can't quite accept what it going on. Like the whole thing is possibly a figment of his pain med drugged up mind.

Behind him, Sam can feel his father's hot breath on the back of his neck as Dad slowly moves closer. Getting more irate by the second with Sam's unwillingness to address him in any way. Sam still concentrating solely on the battered older boy on the couch who now is looking down at his hands like a confused child that doesn't actually know what to do with himself.

It would be easier, better, if Dean would just start yelling.

Yelling, Sam could take.

Yelling, Sam could reason with and fight back against.

Silence is Sam's enemy.

Silence is kicking someone when they are down, because it's hard to mount a defense of righteous indignation when you don't actually have an enemy to fight. When there is no one calling you out on your inconsideration and overall bullshit behavior. Your casual disregard for anyone other than yourself.

Sam can't summon all the fury he needs to exert when he's not met with any resistance. He can't feel justified in making the choices that have been exposed today if he is not given the forum to air his grievances appropriately so that he's not the villain of this piece.

For a brief second, he senses his resolve faltering in the face of his brother's complete lack of interest in engaging him, but then he feels a sharp tug on his arm as Dad finally loses what little patience he has and swings Sam around to face him.

"You are NOT doing this to us, Samuel! I'm getting pretty sick and tired of reminding you of the obligation you have to this family."

And just like that, Sam has an opponent to fight.

Someone in the line of fire that Sam can unload his entire arsenal of frustration upon. Cartridge after cartridge. Magazine on top of magazine. All forged and filled with bullets of Sam's personal brand of self righteousness.

"Family?" he squawks, anger and hostility building as he seethes. "You don't want family, you want mindless grunts to fight your fucking imaginary war!"

The air grows still, then. Not even the tiniest mote of dust would have the nerve to move right now as Dean's eyes go wide on the sofa, while John faces darkens from rage red to pissed off purple.

"This is _our_ war, Samuel," John snarls, grabbing a fistful of his son's shirt. 'You are every bit a part of it as the rest of us. And don't you _ever_ fucking forget it."

With his father gripping him tight, Sam's unable to move further back, and being forced into such close proximity with his adversary, his fight or flight instinct kicks in and comes out guns blazing.

"Oh yeah? Tell me why, Dad!" he demands, panting heavily as his arms wave around. "Tell me why, hell, tell _both_ of us why, we need to hunt and kill and bleed. Give us a fucking reason why we can't just be a normal family that grieves and moves the fuck on already."

Dad grabs him with his other hand now, and Sam's squirms a little when his father pushes him up against a corner of the living room wall. Penning him in like prey without an escape route.

"You know why, Boy. Your mother.."

"DON'T talk about my mother," Sam spits back, because this time he is unwilling to have that thrown in his face. Always a convenient reason when it suits his father, and a forbidden topic of conversation when Sam just wants to ask small questions so he can know her better.

"My mother wouldn't have wanted this for us."

John chuckles darkly and shakes his head. "You don't know a thing about her."

Now Sam fights back, twisting in his father's grasp, trying to force the stronger man to release him, but Dad has years of experience on Sam and his grip never falters. Not for a monster that he hunts, and certainly not for a mouthy belligerent child.

"And whose fault is that, _Dad_ ," Sam barks, still reeling with residual exhaustion from weeks of stress and fear. "Whose fault is it that I don't know anything about her?"

John looks like he's about to say something, but then changes his mind, and Sam can actually see the man almost bite down his tongue. It does nothing more than ramp up Sam's already out of control emotions. Knowing that if he wanted to, he could fight his way out of his father's hold on him, but it would come at a price that he wasn't willing to inflict just yet.

He's not quite at the point where he's a bad enough son to take a swing at his old man.

"I'm getting out of this train wreck of a family," Sam blurts out, unthinking. "If you two want to spend your lives getting the shit kicked out of you, be my fucking guest. But I'm done."

John pushes his son against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt the kid, but strong enough to make a point. It's taking every ounce of conditioned control in him to keep from throwing the kid through the sheet rock right now.

"Whose fault is it, that Dean's spent the last month in the hospital, Samuel? Who didn't do their fucking job that made that happen?"

It's a low blow, but not a lie. Sam actually grunts from pain at the words, and he throws his injured brother a guilty look, eyes roaming around the room wildly while he struggles to contain the despair inside of him.

And like it always does, his hurt manifests as hostility, and he finds himself pushing back without realizing what he's doing.

"I can't help it if my stupid idiot brother keeps trying to throw his life away! But I'm not sticking around anymore to watch him get killed the next time."

And like that, the room is silent again, and the glare his father gives him could melt the entirety of the polar ice caps. Dad shoots one quick look at Dean who has gone perfectly still on the couch while Sam reels with the realization of what has just spewed from his mouth like toxic sludge.

"This ends. _Now_." Dad snarls, shaking Sam hard and pulling him from the wall. "I'm ending it."

Knowing he has gone way too far, Sam doesn't struggle when his father drags him into the kitchen. He gives barely a passing thought as to why Dad doesn't haul him upstairs to his room to punish him. Probably because it's only right that Dean gets a front row seat considering how hurtful and callous Sam has just been to him.

As if, on top of all his physical injuries, Dean needs any more pain caused by his little brother.

Dad snaps his fingers and points to the kitchen table, and Sam knows the drill well enough after eighteen years of being John's son. He promised himself in the hospital that he wouldn't resist when the time came, and although it's not entirely all for the same reason, he's been figuring for a few weeks now that he has this one coming.

He fingers the button on his jeans and, although still enraged, gives his father a quick questioning glance, getting a short nod of instruction in return. Because usually Dad punishes his boys up close and personal anyway, and Sam can already feel his face flushing since his brother is just a few feet away on the couch, but he somehow manages to work his jeans and boxers down to mid thigh.

It's not as if he's never been whipped bare in front of his brother before. Not even as if they've never been punished together either, to be honest, because over the years they have caused plenty of mayhem as willing accomplices. Besides which, being a family of three guys that routinely share close quarters doesn't exactly foster any preciousness about modesty.

Still, it's been a long time, and Sam's not a little boy anymore, but Dean _is_ the injured party in this equation, so if Sam has to suffer a little humiliation, so be it.

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table and can't help the reflexive clench of his gut at the sound of his father's belt being worked free from the loops of his jeans. Years of conditioning have taught Sam to fear that sound more than anything they face in the wild. The clink of the belt buckle being gripped in his father's hand signals the part just before the first strike, and Sam tenses out of habit.

In an otherwise quiet house, the first smack echoes like the rapport of a gun against the walls, and Sam sucks in a deep surprised breath from the harsher than normal burn, because it's obvious that Dad isn't holding anything back right from the start.

Sam chokes and blinks back the tears that spring to his eyes long enough to throw his brother a quick look to see if Dean is just as shocked by the blunt force as he is, but his brother is holding his gaze straight forward and not acknowledging what is happening in the kitchen.

After that dismissal, Sam grits his teeth and resolves to take it all as stoically as possible. Knowing that he's in for a bumpy ride. His list of crimes and sins is long, and he knows that his father is going to make him pay for every single item.

What's more, Sam actually wants him to.

If for no other reason than for him to do some penance for both Dean's accident and Sam's lies about school. Sam's never been the kind of kid that doesn't expect to not have to pay the piper at some point.

Dad might think that what he is doing is going to change Sam's mind about leaving for school, but it simply isn't going to happen. While he's willing to accept some punishment for the things that he has done wrong, he won't be beaten into submission as far as his plans go.

Dad's just going to have to accept that.

With a high pain threshold, Sam manages to endure the whipping with minimal fuss. His fingers ache from clenching and unclenching against the wood of the table, and his breaths are coming out in the form of sharp, harsh bursts and the occasional grunt as the strikes echo around the room.

He can't help the tears that fall, because they are a natural reaction to the searing pain on his backside, but he has been able to avoid any shameful sobs or pleas for mercy.

Behind him, Dad is panting hard from the exertion as he lowers his arm. The usual sign that they are done.

Slowly Sam starts to push himself up, and is surprised when the hand his father has kept on his back to steady him during the punishment tenses and forces him to stay in place. It's not like his father to keep hold of him once it has come to an end.

"This ends right now, Samuel," Dad snaps harshly, still a little breathless. "Tomorrow morning you and I are calling that damn school and I will listen, with my own ears, while you tell them you are _not_ coming."

An icy tendril of panic grips Sam by the throat and strangles him at hearing his father's words. Suddenly he's gasping for air and black spots appear in the periphery of his vision as the world spins.

Dad leans over closer to his ear and his breath is hot on Sam's neck.

"I want to hear you say that this is over. _Right now_. No more nonsense."

If Sam was wise, and less stubborn, and more loyal to his family, he would back down at this point and do what his father tells him to. But Sam's never been the kid that makes anything easy, especially when it's something that he believes firmly about, and he's never felt stronger about anything than his decision to go away to school.

Closing his eyes tightly, knowing what his defiance will cost him, he slides back down in position, with just a little shiver of fear running through his limbs.

"No, sir."

John's breathing picks up even more, coming in long and loud pulls of air as he contemplates the sheer nerve of his youngest.

This conversation isn't over.

Not by a long damn shot, and if it means he's got to take a firmer stand with his kid then so be it. Straightening back up, he grips the back of Sam's shirt with more force than before and raises the belt again.

This time, Sam doesn't manage to keep so quiet.

Less than a minute into the second round, Sam feels like the entire area from mid ass to mid thigh has been coated in a layer of hot, molten lava. Burning and singeing while his sweat slick hands repeatedly lose their purchase against the wood of the table. Strangled cries bubble up out of his throat, and a pool of mingled fluids builds up on the table underneath his face as tears, snot and saliva stream out.

His pride intact, Sam pushes back hard against the temptation to beg for leniency, but with every searing stroke, his determination slips a fraction of an inch further.

Still, he refuses to be broken.

Just when he thinks that he's about to lose the battle however, his father stops. Once again stepping back and giving Sam space to compose himself. Sam leans down against his now clasped hands on the table and rests his face against them, catching his breath as his legs tremble.

Dad's never doled out two whippings in one day to either of his sons before, and Sam would be less than honest if he didn't admit to how unprepared he was for the escalation in pain. Thinking that he wasn't a child anymore, and with his experience and training, he was a fairly tough person.

He was wrong.

The house is deathly still except for the combined heavy breathing of John and Sam, and the faint ambient noise of the daily activities of their neighbors outside. Dean is soundless and motionless on the couch, studiously ignoring both of his family members, his face an unreadable mask of tension.

John waits another moment before speaking again. His face doesn't betray the inner panic that is coursing through him over the very real possibility that he's about to lose his son to a world where Sam is not protected by his family full time.

The terrified father doesn't know what more he can do to force his child to forego these foolish plans of going out on his own, where it's not safe for him, and the unknown variables of negative influences is too great to be ignored.

Sam's always been a rebellious child, but he usually has been eventually reined back in once his father has taken him in hand. John doesn't really want to be so harsh with his little boy, but he's running out of time and options, since arguments, compromises and orders have all failed to dissuade his petulant son.

"This conversation is _over_ , Samuel," he says, with threatening finality. "You will do as you're told. Do you understand?"

And in his mind, John begs to hear his son's acquiescence, because he really doesn't want to take this any further than it has already gone.

Sam slowly pulls himself upright, his face awash in anguish and pain as he scrubs a hand across his eyes and nose, taking in a shuddering breath before turning his head to look at his father's expectant glare.

" _No_."

John swears under his breath, cursing his own genetics for giving him a son every bit as bullheaded as he is himself. If he wasn't worried sick about keeping his kid safe, he would actually be incredibly proud of his son's commitment to his purpose and ideals.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and as much as it will kill him, he can keep this up all night if he has to. Better to face Sam's hatred and ire from being whipped into submission than to have to burn his kid's body on a hunter's funeral pyre when he's still a teenager if the demons get to him first.

He's stuck between a rock and a hard place, knowing that a line is being crossed here today, but also knowing that telling his son the truth about his past will only drive him away even faster.

Maybe even further in the absolutely wrong direction as well.

Once they are done, Sam will either fall back into compliance where John can keep him safe and keep a watchful eye on him, or he will have to go and get out of The Life before something else happens to endanger John's other child. He loves his sons equally, with everything he has in him, but sometimes hard choices have to be made.

Sam's putting up a pretty good show of bravado as he gets in his father's face, and John pretends that he can't see the sudden flash of terror in his baby's eyes when he grips his belt tight again, ready to go a third round if necessary.

He reaches out and grabs Sam by the arm, enough to twist him fully back around to face the table again. Hardening his heart against the pitiful whimpers his son is making, and firmly pushing a now frightened and resisting Sam flat against the wooden surface as he racks his swinging arm back to start once more.

"Dad! _Stop_."

The soft but urgent plea from the other room stills John's arm before he takes the first swing. Under his other hand, he can feel Sammy's back trembling from the sobs that his youngest can't hold back anymore. He looks over into the living room, and can see the glassy sheen that tells him that Dean is crying on the couch, begging with his eyes for his father to put an end to the punishment.

"He's had enough, Dad," Dean pleads in anguish. "Please. You're _hurting_ Sammy."

John lowers his belt hand, but he doesn't release his youngest from his position bent over the table. Dean doesn't understand why he's being as unyielding as he is. It's not like John _wants_ to do this.

But Dean makes the decision for him. As usual, ready, willing and able to put his brother's needs and desires first, over everything else. After everything that has happened and been said, Dean will never be anything than what he is, deep down to his soul.

Sammy's big brother.

"Just let him go, Dad," he says quietly, turning away so that his father can't see the defeat take the light out of his eyes. "Let him go."

Just like that, John deflates like a popped balloon. He doesn't have the energy to fight both of his children, and the double meaning of Dean's words is not lost on him. He didn't want this, but as every soldier knows, sometimes you lose a battle, even if you end up eventually winning the war. Knowing that now he has to hope that by removing Sam from the hunter's world, he decreases the threat of it overtaking his child.

"Fine," he says tiredly, removing his hand from Sam's back so that he can thread his belt back into his jeans.

Sam doesn't move from his position on the table. Possibly too scared to engage his father at the moment. His sobs have quieted now into hiccups as he scrapes a hand over his face, and he flinches slightly when he senses his father leaning closer to him.

"You have a choice, Samuel," John rumbles darkly. "Get up to your room, _right now_ , and you either stay there until you pull your head out of your ass and commit to this family, or you pack your bags and get out."

He waits until Sam responds with the barest of shaky nods before John storms out past both sons and out the front door.

It takes Sam another minute to collect himself enough that he is able to stand upright. Very gingerly easing his boxers and jeans over his inflamed skin as strangled gasps escape his throat. He staggers over to the sink and runs the cold tap of the faucet for a few seconds before scooping up handfuls of water to splash on the flushed and fluid soaked skin of his face.

While he really did need the time to compose himself, eventually he knows that he's going to have to face his worryingly silent brother in the other room. He spends another moment rinsing water over his red and swollen eyes before summoning up the courage to shuffle into the living room.

On the couch, still perched where he has been all afternoon, Dean stares out the window to avoid his little brother's searching gaze. It's all simply too much at this point. His defenses are laid bare, all the way down flat on the ground between his injuries and medications and the long hospital stay that have sapped the majority of his strength right out of him.

Idly, he wonders why an emotional pain like the one he's feeling inside his chest right now doesn't seem to be enough to actually finish the job of killing him outright.

It really should have been.

Sam stands nervously for a moment, leaning hip to wall and practically sagging from exhaustion. Not having the tiniest clue of how to breach this wall of silence between himself and his big brother. Dean's not a talker on the best of occasions, and considering how wildly everything has spun out of control since bringing him home from the _goddamn hospital_ , chances are the other Winchester is going to keep his mouth clamped tighter than vise.

But, of course, Sam should know better than to underestimate his brother's concern for him.

"You okay?"

Sam shifts a little from his position against the wall, feeling the scorching burn of fabric scraping against his raw skin and sucks in a tiny breath between his teeth in a soft hiss.

"Not really," he admits quietly. "But I'll live."

Dean just nods, continuing his refusal to meet his brother's pleading eyes. It's easier this way.

"Dean," Sam starts, knowing that his time in the house is short. There's no telling when his father will storm back in and demand his departure.

From his place on the couch, Dean holds up his good hand in a cautioning movement and shakes his head.

"Just.. _don't_ , Sam."

Now that the time is here, Sam is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he can't face leaving his brother behind.

That he's a selfish child who wants it _all_.

Stanford _and_ his brother.

He thinks, for a split happy second, that if he just makes himself _ask_ , Dean will agree to follow him out to California, like Sam once thought he would when this all started.

"Come with me," he begs. " _Please_."

Instead of the agreement he expects, or the outright refusal he fears, Sam is caught off guard when his brother laughs coldly.

"Nah, don't think so. Us stupid idiot grunts need to stay here and throw our lives away."

The flaming arrow of Sam's own thoughtless words comes shooting back at him with bulls eye accuracy, piercing his already bleeding heart with it's blazing fire. He recoils, like he's taken a physical punch to the gut, and knows that if just hearing the words repeated has hurt _him_ so badly, what had they done earlier to his brother?

"Dean," he tries again, his face full anguish, "I didn't mean..."

When Sam's brother finally looks at him, his eyes are cold and there's no trace of the usual cocky grin that Dean will hide behind to mask his true emotions. He's just _done_.

" _Yes._ You did," Dean says with sharp finality.

An uncomfortable moment of silence passes while Sam's mind wars within itself. He never wanted this. Not at all.

Not like this.

"You better get upstairs," Dean says quietly, closing his eyes and leaning back against the couch as much as his injuries allow. "You got a choice to make."

And like the coward he is, Sam pushes away from the wall and drags himself upstairs as fast as his bruised legs can take him.

/

Sam's heart is racing a mile a minute after he closes his bedroom door and falls slightly to lean back against it.

 _This isn't happening_

 _This isn't happening_

 _This isn't happening_

While his mind splits chaotically like the head of a sprinkler into ten different directions, he fights and struggles to make sense out of the last thirty minutes of his life. Wondering exactly how everything could turn to utter shit so fast.

It must be some new kind of land speed record in the _How Quickly Can You Fuck Up Your Life_ Olympics.

Of which now Sam Winchester is the current gold medal holder and world champion.

Out of habit, he finds himself doing the calming breathing exercises that he was taught, ironically enough, by his father. A desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control over his emotions so that he can just snag even one tiny coherent thought from the shit storm jumble in his mind.

How had he even had the remotest hope that this was ever going to go well?

If anyone knew his father and brother, and their complete and utter dedication to the family business, it was him. So why had he allowed himself to believe that this wasn't going to end in bloodshed?

Maybe it was better this way. What do they say about just ripping the band-aid off? Is that what his life has now been boiled down to? A metaphorical bandage?

In a less crappy world, Sam would have been given time to smooth things over, at least with his brother. Dean was always going to take the news badly. Was never going to see it from Sam's perspective, because his big brother was simply incapable of understanding that a large part of Sam's reasoning for going off was to spare Dean the trouble of watching out for him in the first place.

That idea wouldn't even present itself anywhere near the realm of Dean's line of thinking.

As far as he was concerned, taking care of his little brother was etched into his DNA. Every bit a part of him as his freckles and allergy to cats.

It would be like telling Sam to stop being B positive for his blood type. He just simply couldn't do it.

Taking a beat, and clambering for rationality, Sam knew that one option allowed by his father was that he could just stop it all right now, before making a horrible situation unrecoverable. He could email Stanford and tell them that he had changed his mind.

 _Sorry, but my family has some pretty unhealthy co-dependency dynamics and I won't be able to attend after all. Thanks anyway._

He could flop down on his exceptionally comfortable bed, in the house he had grown to love over the past year, and wait obediently and patiently to be released from his paternal time out. Ready, willing and able to tuck his tail between his legs and fall in line when his father deigned to allow him to rejoin the mission.

Dad would probably still be pissed off, but he had already whipped his youngest good and proper, and as long as Sam showed the appropriate amount of submission and remorse, Dad would let their altercation go after a while. Sure, he would keep his youngest son on the shortest of short leashes until he was convinced of Sam's dedication and respect for the chain of command, but it would happen eventually.

Hell, Dad might even be _happy_ about Sam staying.

As for Dean, he wouldn't be quite as quick to forgive and forget this particular infraction. Sam knew that his big brother was going to take this one personally for a lot longer than their father would.

And he would be right to do so.

After all he had done for Sam, this was a hurdle that wasn't going to be jumped any time soon. Dean didn't do anything halfway either, including holding a grudge. He gave everything he had to his father and brother. Loved them fiercely and unconditionally, even when they didn't deserve it.

Sam knew that.

It was one of the things he both admired about his brother and yet was still annoyed by. Although he was the usual recipient of that love, it irked him how easily his brother gave of himself when it wasn't deserving.

 _Especially_ when it was Sam that didn't deserve his forgiveness.

But Dean _would_ forgive him eventually. Because he was also physically and emotionally incapable of freezing out his little brother, no matter how brutally he had been hurt, _over and over_ , by Sam's actions.

Which is why Sam knew he had to go.

No matter how much Sam loved his family, _and he did_ , he also knew that he was never going to be what they wanted him to be. That to even try, as he had thought he had been willing to, would just tear them all apart that much quicker.

Even as much as Sam wanted to, he simply didn't have it in him to keep his mouth shut and not question his father's orders and directions. He was always going to need to do things the way he thought about them and saw them, and Sam's way was never going to be Dad's. All it would succeed in doing is widening the gap between them.

Maybe this way, one day, Sam and his father would finally be able to see eye to eye on things, once a little time had passed to lower the level of hurt and resentment that neither of them seemed capable of letting go. When some time and distance would lower the waves of hostility between them.

What was that about absence and fonder hearts?

As for Dean, Sam wanted to give back to his brother everything that Dean had given to him, but he knew that it wasn't going to happen. That in trying to remake himself into something that he wasn't, solely for his brother's sake, Sam would only begin to resent Dean for forcing Sam's hand.

It would be like trying to remold Michelangelo's _David_.

Some people found the statue beautiful and loved it just like it was, while others merely saw a cold, stone man with overly large hands. The appreciation for what it is depends on the eye of the beholder and, once it's broken, it can never be reassembled into anything as wonderful and unique as the original was.

Sam's never been what his father and brother want him to be, no matter how hard they have tried to sculpt and mold him into a hunter, and in his continued effort to try, all it would do is break him into a million ugly pieces that no one, especially Sam himself, would love afterwards.

Maybe it was selfish to go.

No.

Scratch that.

It _was_ selfish.

On a certain level.

Sam wasn't going to try and fool himself into believing that going off to school like he had been dreaming of for years wasn't a selfish move on a million personal levels, but he wasn't the first kid to leave home, and he wouldn't be the last.

Yes, it would have been nicer to go with his family's blessing, but since that wasn't apparently going to happen, Sam was just going to have to accept that and make his peace with it. It didn't mean that he wasn't going to miss them with every beat that his heart took from now on.

Their family had never had much, but at least they have always had _each other_ , and now Sam wasn't even going to have that.

It was finally that reality that prompted the watery sob that wells up in his chest and bursts out of him as he sways slightly against the door. The knowledge that, in just the few minutes it was going to take him to pack, he was well and truly going to be alone in this world.

Moving as fast as his aching ass and legs would allow him to, he makes his way over to his laptop and checks bus schedules out of Sioux Falls. Finding the soonest departures and comparing them against the list he has mentally drawn up of Uncle Bobby's cabins.

It's already too late in the day for much choice, and the only feasible option is Des Moines, Iowa which, unfortunately, was the wrong direction for California, but it didn't really matter. Sam was now about to be homeless for the next five weeks, and he didn't really have the money to pay for a motel for the entire time.

The hunter cabins were his only option, since beggars couldn't afford to be choosers. Maybe Uncle Bobby wouldn't even want him there considering what Sam was about to do, but he would deal with that when the time came. For now, all he knew was that he had to leave, and leave _immediately_ , if he was going to keep his resolve to get out of The Life.

As mad as Dean was at him, and as disappointed and furious as Dad was, Sam knew that neither of them would actually demand his removal from the house tonight if it came right down to it. They weren't cruel, after all. But he also knew that if he didn't put some distance between them and himself, he would never have the strength to go.

It wouldn't take much from either of them to persuade him to forget his plans, because he really did love them. It was killing him to walk away, but it was really for the best for all of them.

Mind made up, he begins to pack.

Leaving this house was going to be agonizing for him. Here he had made more happy memories in the past year than in the seventeen years prior combined. Every single memory that now flooded his mind was like another lash from his father's belt at ten times the pain.

Adding his school khakis to his duffel, because he was going to need some regular clothes on campus.

Finding plastic Easter eggs filled with money in his go-bag.

Gathering up the framed photographs of times before and after they arrived here last summer.

Deciding which books he could take off the shelves that Dad had built, because he only had just so much room for his things.

His high school diploma and awards day medals.

His souvenirs from DC that he couldn't bear to part with, but now felt guilty for wanting to bring them along.

It was an excruciating task deciding what tokens of his life would be allowed to come with him. Dad had always forced them to travel lightly, and so Sam knew how to rationally prioritize, but he had real emotional attachments to everything in his bedroom and the trinkets and pictures he had collected.

But he also knew that he couldn't take them all, and he couldn't afford to be attached to the things that he had to leave behind. Because without him, Dean would give this house up and go back out on the road where he belonged, and all remnants of the family life they created here would be scattered to the wind like so much garbage.

That thought broke Sam in a dozen profound ways.

It was quiet downstairs, and Sam wonders what his father and brother are doing, and if they could hear him walking back and forth around his room.

Did they know what he was getting ready to do?

Would they try to stop him?

 _God, he almost hoped so._

The closer he came to being finished with his task, the more his resolve was faltering. Just because the large part of him knew that it was time to go, that didn't mean that there wasn't still a part of him that secretly wanted his father and brother to hold him close and convince him to stay.

To tell him that it was okay that he didn't want the things out of life that they did, but it didn't matter because they were family and would work it out.

It's when he sees his key ring on the dresser that he loses his battle against tears.

The compact physical representation of all the happiness that this year has given him.

Keys to the first house that they were able to call home in his memory, as well as to the car that his father and brother have built just for him that he loved. The plastic tag that has his membership number for discounts at the coffeehouse, reminding him of happy, carefree hours spent with his friends. A braided loop that Alex made for him to match the one she had on her own keys.

The simple silver engraved cylinder that declared the close relationship that he and Dean have always shared.

With a realization so painful that Sam could literally feel his heart bleeding, he knows at this moment that he would have to leave it all behind.

There would be no coming back to this house, and Dean would have to turn in Sam's keys when he gave back his own to their eccentric but friendly enough landlady.

Sam might be allowed back some day to visit Uncle Bobby, if he is ever forgiven for leaving tonight, but without his friends, he wouldn't be frequenting the coffeehouse anymore.

He and Alex had already said their goodbyes the day after graduation when she left on a summer long trip to Europe with her parents. Both of them knowing a while ago that neither of them wanted a long distance relationship. They had parted as good and loving friends, but nothing more.

The keys to the Camaro have to go back to Dean. Sam's not going to starve in California, but there's no extra money built into his student stipends to pay for the parking and upkeep of a car. Sam had been hoping that his brother would figure out a way to keep Cherry for him somehow, maybe at Uncle Bobby's place, but after tonight, Sam knows that Dean will never want to see it again.

It's too valuable to keep lying around, and far too painful of a reminder of the betrayal of a little brother.

The engraved cylinder Sam could keep, but it would only serve as a harsh accusation of how much pain and damage he was inflicting on the sibling that had given him everything, only to have it thrown back in his face.

Sam wasn't afraid of much, but he was far too much of a coward to take the little piece of silver with him. His departure was breaking a lifetime oath between the brothers, and he had no right to try and cling to anything it symbolized.

The minutes are passing by far too quickly, and Sam grudgingly forces himself to gather up the meager possessions he allows himself so he can take his leave. It's a long ride from the stop for the city bus up the block to even get to the downtown bus terminal, and he's got to get going if he's going to make the bus for Des Moines tonight.

The idea of sleeping at the bus station isn't appealing right now after everything else.

Although, he supposes he better get used to the idea of being homeless as soon as possible.

Hefting his bags over his shoulder, he gives his room one last look before closing the door behind him, and feeling a little part of him die on the inside. For a kid that is used to moving around, it's excruciatingly difficult to put this particular home in his rear view mirror.

He's acutely feeling the painful aftereffects of his run in with his father's belt, but the physical aches of his body are running a distant second place to the one in his heart right now. Every step he takes as he ambles downstairs is the symbolic countdown for the end of the life that he has loved.

In the living room, Dean hasn't moved from his place on the couch, which shouldn't really be surprising. Sam's big brother is not only still battling the influence of his pain management cocktail, but he is also pretty immobile for the time being as well.

Even the mighty Dean Winchester has his physical limitations, and a busted leg and fractured collarbone are going to be an impediment to your motion, regardless of how strong your will is.

Sam stops just within his brother's line of sight. Allowing Dean to see him and his packed bags well enough so that he doesn't need to move, but still far enough away that he doesn't have to quite look his big brother in the eye.

He knows well enough that all it would take is the tiniest of flickers, the slightest hint of pleading in the depths of the vivid green irises, and Sam will give in. Submissively turning around and unpacking and never mentioning the word _college_ again.

And he simply cannot allow that to happen.

As hard as it is right now, for the both of them, Sam is still convinced that this is all for the best. He needs to remain strong.

With his head down, and his eyes averted enough to avoid the danger, he quickly shuffles over and lays his key ring down on the coffee table in front of his brother, before pulling himself back like he's been burned and swallowing hard to keep the sobs choked down in his throat.

Dean takes a quick glance at the key ring, knows what it means, but his face betrays nothing. He simply nods, as if he's been expecting this, but Sam can see the death grip that his brother's good hand uses to claw the fabric of the couch, as if his entire world is spinning away from him and he's desperately clinging on.

"Guess it wasn't you and me against the world after all, huh Sam."

Sam, not Sammy, because Sammy is a sweet and loving little brother, and Sam is the asshole stranger that is breaking up their family. He swallows again, his mouth trembling as he struggles to keep a semblance of composure, but he can't stop his entire body from shaking under his brother's words.

The last minute reprieve that Sam had been secretly hoping for isn't forthcoming, and upon further consideration, Sam realizes that he was a fool to even think it was possible. Dean is a lot of things, but weak is not one of them, while proud certainly is.

Sam's big brother is not about to beg him to stay home when it's clear that Sam wants to be someplace else.

Not even to stay and help care for Dean when he's broken physically and emotionally, even though Sam knows that his brother would never in a million years dream of abandoning _him_ if the tables were turned.

Maybe Sam really is just the selfish asshole that his family thinks he is after all.

Because Sam needs to run. He needs to get away. From all of it. Not another minute more where he can hurt and disappoint the ones he loves. He needs to run from this life to a new life. One without the pain and memories and the sadness.

Needs it like oxygen.

It's better for everyone, he convinces himself. Everyone will be happier.

There is a heavy moment of silence between them. A malignant air of finality that tells them both that life from this day forward is going to be far different than either of the brothers ever wanted. But like a runaway train, it's too late to pump the brakes now. Things have gone too far and have hurt too much and there is no return from here that doesn't leave scars.

"I didn't want it to be like this," Sam says quietly, and it's true. He's dying inside as the tears start to fall again.

He can see Dean's mouth working, as if his brother is chewing on the words that want to come spilling out, willy-nilly. Maybe ones that will offer some sort of comfort or compromise that would staunch the bleeding of them both before they're drowning in it.

But what he finally says hits like a punch to the gut and leaves Sam breathless and gasping for air.

"Goodbye, Sam."

Sam physically reels back, and it takes a few seconds to sink in as his body trembles and curls in on itself. There is a coldness and complete lack of emotion in Dean's dismissal, but maybe that's okay because it ruthlessly severs whatever hope Sam was harboring over this not being the end of their brotherhood.

He doesn't have the strength anymore to speak and his vision is completely blurred by the tears that are streaming down his cheeks. In his head he hears the buzz of hospital white noise as his mind takes shelter away from the pain he is feeling at the moment and, on autopilot, he grabs his bags and heads for the door.

With his hand on the doorknob, he hesitates for a few seconds, because it's taking all the will he can summon right now to take the next step and he can't do it because he knows that he can't leave things like they are.

But Dean is now looking out the window again, completely ignoring Sam and keeping his own emotions in check like he always does. Sam has now become one of the people that Dean puts his guard up against, and it's that knowledge that finally crushes Sam and prompts him to go. He turns one last time, takes one last look at the person that means more to him than anything else in the world.

"I love you."

And without waiting for a response that he knows will never come, to a phrase they don't vocalize to each other, he walks out into the world and closes the door behind him.

Sam makes it down to the end of the driveway before he sees his father leaning against the rear quarter panel of the Sierra. Dad sees him, and an unreadable expression crosses his face when he glances at the heavy bags hanging from Sam's shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, and hoping for no further conflict, Sam racks his shoulders back and strides over to his father, jaw firmly set in an effort to present a stronger front than he actually feels.

"You going?"

Dad's question is neither reproach nor censure. Just calm and indifferent, as if they are discussing the weather.

"Yes, sir."

A few seconds pass as they stand in detente. Eventually, Dad nods as if he's come to a decision and has made his peace with it.

"Bus?"

Sam swallows hard and blinks, forcing back another wave of tears that will do him no favors if he allows them to continue to spill. He jerks his head in the tiniest gesture of acknowledgment, knowing that anything more will destroy the little composure he is struggling to maintain.

Dad nods his head towards the passenger door, and Sam accepts the invitation for the ride. He needs to be on that Des Moines bound bus if he wants to get away tonight, and his farewells are sapping all of his strength and he's behind schedule.

They don't talk during the short ride to the station. Sam's jaw is working overtime as he chokes back the words that would betray him and leave too much of an opening for his father's persuasion to infiltrate and crumble what is left of his younger son's resolve.

Behind the wheel, John's knuckles grow increasingly white as he drives, gripping and tensing with every passing mile. Before either of them know it, John is pulling to the curb outside the station, where he puts the Sierra in park, but leaves the motor idling.

Sam sits in the passenger seat, not able to summon the nerve to look his father in the eye. Knowing that if he does, he will become undone. And it might all be for nothing if that happens, because there is no guarantee that his father won't just kick him out of the car anyway, after all that has happened today.

Yet, he can't seem to force himself to open the door.

John rubs a hand down the scruff of his right cheek. Still beaten and weary from too many days of worry and lack of sleep. His military surplus khaki green outer shirt damp with sweat and smelling like hospital disinfectant.

"Sam?"

His summons is quiet and lacking the hostility that his son was anticipating, and as a result Sam is able to force his gaze enough sideways to spare his father a tentative glance.

"If you go," Dad starts, pausing to take a deep breath. Just enough that it unintentionally gives his boy the tiniest spark of hope of reconciliation. "You should stay gone."

The quiet interior of the truck's cab makes Sam's sharp intake of breath resonate much louder than either one of them would have wanted. Sam's mouth trembles for a few brief seconds as he loses his battle with the stray tear that trails down his cheek.

But he doesn't allow his weakness to show for long, because he will be damned if he gives his father the satisfaction of seeing him cry anymore today. So he opens the door and slides out, pulling his bags behind him, and as he stands next to the truck, he straightens up to his full proud height and looks his dad right in the eyes.

Because for once, they are in complete agreement about something.

"Yes, sir."

Then he strides away, determined to feign a strength and confidence he doesn't feel. Never looking back to see the tears in John's eyes as he watches his little boy walk out of his life.

/

They're twenty-two and eighteen.

A chasm now separates them. A gaping hole so wide and so deep that it's unlikely anyone or anything will ever be able to bridge it again.

Sam sits on the bus as it slowly maneuvers its way out of the Sioux Falls city limits, heading far from his family and the life that he loved there.

On the bus he is no one.

No one's son.

No one's little brother.

No one at all.

He's just Sam. Homeless orphan and only child. Alone and already flailing and lost on his quest for independence.

His fellow passengers don't know who he is and, what's more, they don't care.

Each of them mired in their own world as the diesel fumes from the engine occasionally fill the cabin and threaten to make Sam's already queasy stomach rebel and flip.

He doesn't allow himself to feel any pity for his circumstances.

Knowing that he is the one that has chosen this life and this separation, and because of that he accepts that he has lost the right to deserve any sympathy, or to wallow in a self made pool of devastation. Bereft, he mentally builds a damn in his mind to keep the crushing thoughts from flooding over him like a tidal wave.

Even if he had a sudden charge of heart, it's too late to go back now.

Dad has made his position perfectly clear with his parting gift of the ultimatum that paired nicely with the painful punitive welts on Sam's ass. Sam vacillates between resentment and understanding of his father's actions, but because he needs a strong head of steam to push him forward, he chooses to focus only on the resentment.

It's easier that way.

A momentary desire to get off at the next stop and go running back to the house, to throw his arms around his father and brother and beg forgiveness for the sin of abandoning his family, passes as quickly as it comes.

Sam has too much pride to do that now. He's given his choice today enough careful consideration, even if it was made during a time of extreme emotional duress, but he is at least smart enough to realize that no matter what he does now, his bridges with his family are well and truly burned.

Smoldering in the distance as the bus rolls down the highway.

Back at the house in Sioux Falls, Dean's world crumbles around him. Overdue for his next dose of pain meds, he doesn't even bother to choke them down. He needs to _feel_ something now other than the emotional wounds of abandonment and betrayal, and the pain of his physical injuries will do nicely.

He simply doesn't know what he could have done differently. How much more of himself he had to give to prevent this day from coming. What was it about him that was so terrible that his brother couldn't wait to run away? Didn't even have the guts to tell Dean to his face before it was too late to be honest?

A long lonely hour passes before his father returns to the house. John looks as wrecked as Dean feels. As broken and tired as he has ever seen his father over the years, and that is really saying something.

The two of them don't speak.

There is nothing that either could possibly say to the other to make this any less agonizing.

When John comes over and sits on the edge of the coffee table, Dean finally turns to look at his father, and the devastation in his firstborn's eyes is enough to bring the hardened hunter to his knees.

It is the look of a little boy, confused and hurting and failing to make sense of his loss, desperately needing his daddy to fix it and make everything better again.

John painfully recognizes it as the same look Dean had on his face the night Mary died, and he also knows that he feels just as helpless now as he did then.

Sam isn't the only one that drew his line in the sand today, and he's also not the only one to do it _for_ _Dean_ , and yet Dean is the one that is here on this couch, trying to understand why the only other family members he has seem to feel the need to rip them all to shreds.

John is every bit the coward that Sam is, only he doesn't have youth to blame for his shortcomings.

It's not the time or the place to try to make his firstborn understand why he did what he did today, because he knows that Dean would never agree with him in a million years. He could never understand that maybe Sam is going to be better off in the end, far away from the hunting life.

Far away from the evil that threatens to claim him.

But John can't think about that anymore right now. There will be time to secure Sam's safety in his new life, but he's out of time for taking care of his eldest.

It's Dean that needs him now. It's Dean, already battered physically by injuries that would defeat a lesser man, and who is now losing his fight against his emotions as he leans against his father and finally allows the gut wrenching sobs of despair and anguish escape his chest.

And like he did the night Dean lost his mother, John carefully wraps his arms around his damaged son and holds him as he breaks.

Two brothers.

Each facing an uncertain future that neither of them have the first clue on how to cope with in their new situation. It doesn't matter who else exists on the periphery of their lives because they are both profoundly changed after today.

There's a gaping hole directly next to each of them. Unnoticeable by anyone but themselves. It used to the be the place where someone very special could always be found.

Friend, teacher, student, protector, comforter, partner-in crime. _Brother_.

But that person is gone now, and their absence is so utterly devastating that the world itself should come to a grinding halt in protest. Sharing it's grief that two parts of the same soul have been cruelly yanked apart, and rending the halves into an unholy and unnatural state that they were never designed to endure.

All alone against the world.

/


	16. August 2001

_/_

A/N Thank you to everyone that has taken the time to read and review. I appreciate every one of them and love to chat with you in PM about the story. Thanks to the guests I can't speak to directly. Sorry for the wait in the latest update. Because life.

 _/_

 _Ever think about running away? - Sully, Just My Imagination._

/

According to the _Kübler-Ross_ model, there are five stages of grief that a person experiences in the wake of the loss of a loved one.

Originally written as part of a book by a Swiss psychiatrist called _On Death and Dying_ , it was a study based on the author's work with terminally ill patients. An explanation of sorts of how the human mind reacts to traumatic and impending loss.

In reality, grief is grief, and loss is loss, and it doesn't actually take the literal death of a loved one for someone to experience the loss of them. Or to grieve the absence of a loved one in your day to day life, if they are no longer with you.

As far as the human mind is concerned, the loss is the same regardless, and so are the stages that someone who is grieving undergoes as they struggle to process the loss and find a way to move on.

For study purposes, the model expounded upon and enhanced the traits that the author experienced as she chronicled the mindsets and behaviors of both terminal patient, and the ones around them after the eventual demise, until five distinctive stages could be mapped out and clearly observed.

 **Denial** – The first stage, where someone initially believes that a mistake has been made and an individual's belief that the diagnosis is somehow mistaken, resulting in them clinging to a false, preferable reality, or unrealistic expectations.

 **Anger** – The second state, when the person grieving recognizes that denial cannot continue, they become frustrated and begin to lash out as well as desperately demanding answers for unanswerable questions. "Why me? It's not fair!" "How can this happen to me?" "Who is to blame?" "Why would this happen?".

 **Bargaining** \- The third stage involves the hope that the individual can avoid a cause of grief or seek a compromise that would exchange, or sacrifice a part of, a lifestyle in order to get back the one they are grieving. "I'd give anything to have him back." "If only he'd come back, I'd promise to be a better person!"

 **Depression** – During the fourth stage, the individual finally despairs. In this stage, the individual may become silent, refuse social interaction and spend much of the time mournful and sullen.

 **Acceptance** – In this last stage, individuals embrace the inevitable future, and begin to understand that the situation is entirely out of their hands. That life needs to go on.

/

The five stages of grief are a journey of sorts. One that is necessary to deal with loss.

A long painful journey that the Winchester family was only just beginning.

/

 **DENIAL**

/

After Mary died, Dean stopped talking.

It took John a little while to notice it, being as shocked and traumatized as he was himself at the time. Those first few days, it took everything he had in him just to keep from eating his own gun. Only the frantic need to protect and shelter his children saved him from following his beloved into the next world.

He had been fortunate at the time to have Mike and Kathy and, a bit later, another friend Julie helping him care for his boys in the aftermath of the fire. As much as things went south between him and his former business partner later on, the three of them had been a Godsend at the time, when John was still shell shocked and reeling.

Not just from the loss of his wife, but the absolutely inexplicable manner in which she had been taken from him.

First it had been the obligatory rounds of mourning.

Acquaintances and neighbors streaming endlessly in and out of the Gunther house for days, bearing an unfailing mixture of casseroles sprinkled with nosy questions. Hushed words of condolences and meaningless platitudes as they waxed poetic about a woman they had barely known.

John and Mary weren't necessarily antisocial, but they had limited their inner circle of friends to just the few that they were genuinely close to.

Seeing so many people express their sympathies, without actually having a single idea as to the real person they were talking about, made John's already hot blood boil over, and he often found himself rudely escaping a room before he shouted down his anger and frustration at these clueless wonders who, for some reason, thought that they were _helping_.

 _You wanna help me?_ He wanted to scream. _Find the bastard that did this to my family._

The police weren't any better.

They tried, for a few days anyway, to unsuccessfully pin the whole disaster on _him_ , for some reason. Maybe just because it would have made their job a lot easier if they didn't have to work so hard to find a real culprit. Instead of tracking down actual leads, they had felt the need to drag John and Mary's personal lives through the mud.

As if a temporary separation months earlier could have been the catalyst for John setting fire to his _own_ _son's_ bedroom.

 _Assholes_.

Of course, what could they really have done? John himself had no explanation for what he saw. It was absurd and terrifying in equal measures. What could possibly have put Mary on the ceiling like that? Besides which, John couldn't shake the feeling that the fire had been _attacking_ him.

It was insane.

For almost two weeks, the little family barely made it through the days. Dean had always been hovering nearby his father when John returned from his futile efforts to get a real investigation going. Clinging to John like a second skin.

So it wasn't as if he didn't know where his son was or what he was doing during that time. Or whether or not he was in any kind of danger.

With what was left of his attention usually demanded by a fussy Sammy crying buckets of pitiful tears over the absence of his mother, John's frazzled nerves hadn't really noticed that his firstborn was being unnaturally quiet.

After such a devastating loss and shock, it wasn't terribly surprising that a child wouldn't have much to say, and sadly John had been too distracted in his own thoughts to really worry about his son's silence.

Then John had gone to Missouri and learned the truth about what was out there in the darkness, and a whole new world was opened up before him. One that immediately sparked his need for revenge, and obsession over the protection of his kids. All he knew was that no one was going to be bothered to solve the mystery of Mary's death, unless it was John himself, and at that realization, it was clear to him that it didn't matter what he needed to do to accomplish it.

John became engulfed in a maelstrom of terror and panic. His blood running continuously cold from fear over the dangers and risks still posed all too uncomfortably close to his children. All he could think of at that time was _how_ he was going to protect his boys from meeting the same fate as his wife.

It took him completely over.

The abject fright and unyielding determination swirling together like a vengeful toxin that remapped the very strands of his DNA. Already he was distancing himself from his former life in his search for answers. It would become a routine habit of his over the years as he edged ever slightly closer. John had no time or patience for those that attempted to interfere with his quest.

Missouri had led him to the first hunter he apprenticed under, explaining to him that everyone in The Life had their specialties. This generalized mantra wouldn't apply to John himself in the future, being one of the few truly seasoned hunters that became absolutely fluent in monster _everything_. But, at the time, he had needed to start somewhere.

After the falling out with Mike and Kathy, with John grabbing his children and walking away from Lawrence forever, he had made his way to the Roadhouse with his new guide, meeting Bill and Ellen Harvelle upon his arrival. Bill was an experienced hunter in his own right, more than willing to teach John. The Harvelles were kind and decent people, with a little girl of their own just a bit younger than Dean was, and it didn't take long for them to foster an attachment to the grieving little family.

John studied under Bill while Ellen minded the boys. Little Jo chased after Dean like an adoring fangirl, happy to have a potential playmate close in age, but Dean was oblivious. Single minded in his devotion to watching out for his baby brother. He stuck to Ellen like glue, always warily studying her interactions with Sammy with a mounting suspicion too extreme for a pre-schooler.

Less than a month after Mary's death, John made his first supernatural kill. A shapeshifter that had stupidly shown up at the Roadhouse, for some reason with designs on John himself. Something that would haunt his every move for months afterwards as he tried to make sense of his family's uncomfortable prominence in the seedy underbelly of the hidden world.

With his newfound knowledge, his Marine persona once again taking forefront, he dispatched it quickly and efficiently without even blinking, and thus began his journey on the road so far.

It wasn't until he heard the quiet _Daddy?_ behind him, that he realized that his traumatized four year old had been watching.

It also was when he finally realized that he hadn't actually heard his son speak since the night of the fire.

Since Sammy's departure from Sioux Falls five days ago, Dean hasn't said a word to anyone.

Still fairly immobile, he spends all his time on the sofa in the living room, mindlessly staring out the window, as if, at any moment, he expects to see his floppy haired little brother come strolling down the street looking to reconcile with his family. Occasionally, John sees him check his pitifully silent phone, only to see a quick sharp flash of pain in his son's eyes when there are no calls or messages.

Just a few days out of the hospital, Dean can't really do for himself at the moment.

Something that John well knows irks his proud independent son.

But there's not much either of them can do to rectify that at this point. Because Dean's shoulder and arm are still trussed up for another couple of weeks, sending shooting pains down the same side of his body as his busted and cast leg.

The poor kid can't even really hobble around on a crutch yet.

Normally John would be itching to head back out on the hunt by this point. Already having spent five long weeks mired in Dean's accident and resulting medical needs, and feeling the ever present pressure of finishing his mission.

But not this time.

This time John is all too keenly aware that his boy needs him more than the world does, and John is going to be there for his kid every second of the day until his firstborn is back on his feet. He almost lost his son, and the fear that hasn't yet released its hold on John's throat keeps him more than willing to lay low with his boy as long as Dean wants him to.

Sometimes John gets the distinct troubling impression that his son is waiting for the other shoe to drop as far as his family is concerned. Having already been abandoned by his little brother, Dean seems quietly resigned for the moment when his father packs up and heads back out at well.

John would be less than honest if he didn't admit to himself that it causes him real heartache to see the almost surprised look on his oldest son's face every morning when he wakes up and sees that his father is still around.

Not that John doesn't deserve his son's lowered expectations.

God knows the kid has been let down by his old man on a hundred different occasions. Truthfully, John himself isn't so sure that he would be sticking around during Dean's convalescence if Sammy were still at home to care for his brother.

The father in him would like to think that he would have. That ingrained paternal instinct and concern would override his usual tunnel vision regarding his search for anything that would lead to the demise of the demon that ruined his family.

But, in all fairness, he's not entirely sure, regardless of his unconditional love for his boy. He's at least honest enough with himself to admit that.

Because he knows, even more disturbing to his psyche, that there is the very real question of whether or not his sons would even _want_ him around while Dean recuperated. It's been a long time since either of his kids have needed their daddy around during illness and hurts. From very young ages, Sam and Dean have always had a definite partnership between them when it came to taking care of each other through sickness and injury.

An intimacy between brothers that precluded all others, including John. Maybe even _especially_ John. Where they weren't afraid to express pain and fear and frustration that they would often try to hide from a well meaning but demanding father who expected them to man up when the chips were down and play through the pain.

With Sammy now gone, a reality that is so painful to think about that John chokes down a million agonizing screams a day, the care of his firstborn once more falls directly on John's shoulders

And that's okay.

Because Sammy chose to walk away from his family, and these days John's finding himself needing more and more to grip onto his eldest as tightly as he can so that Dean doesn't fall away from him too. John has already lost his wife, and now his baby boy, and if he loses Dean as well, then there's simply no reason to go on anymore.

So he dials down the whiskey and tequila and puts away any ideas of hunts or research that won't relate directly to Azazel. He makes sure that he is the first thing Dean sees in the morning and the last thing at night. Pushing down his own hurt at the unfailing surprise in Dean's green eyes when he makes contact. Never forcing his boy to speak if he's not ready to, but always hovering in the immediate area, just in case he finally is.

John loves his kids more than he can express, and sometimes he has the time or means to indulge them a little, but he's never been the type of father that coddles his sons.

He can't afford to and neither can they.

Ordinarily, he would be pushing his firstborn to snap out of his funk and get on with it, but this time he doesn't have the heart to issue that order. Dean and his little brother are two parts of the same whole. The perfectly engineered team that John himself was the architect. It's going to take Dean time to learn how to live without his brother, and John is going to give it to him.

At some point, in the not too distant future, John will push his son back out into the hunting world, knowing that Dean does better when he has a goal to focus on. But, right now, Dean's body needs to heal before his father can do anything about his son's heart and mind, so hunts can wait until his boy is physically ready to be on the road again.

John keeps Dean comfortable in the living room. The couch is large and plush, and with Dean's injuries he's going to be just as comfortable on it as he would anywhere else. Besides which, John is fairly sure that his son can't bear the idea of being stranded alone in his own bedroom upstairs. Far away from even the minute activity that the little house sees during the day.

After one attempt to relocate him there, Dean had become so panicked and resistant that John immediately dismissed any idea to try again. John knows his son better than anyone else, and his firstborn doesn't do well by himself. He never has.

So they make do.

Falling into a routine, by now John knows that when Dean pushes himself to swing both legs off the couch that he needs to use the restroom, and his father is never any further away from him than the kitchen table during the day or the stuffed chair next to the couch at night.

Any thoughts John had about finally getting to sleep in a bed after a month on a chair in the hospital go by the wayside. His basement bedroom is too far away for him to be from his boy right now. Although Dean isn't speaking, John has a pretty good idea of what would happen to his son, should Dean need his father in the night and not find him at his side.

Not for the first time they are both relieved that they renovated the first floor half bath a few months ago.

A few times a day it takes several minutes of careful maneuvering to get Dean into the half bath, but he manages himself once he's in there while John quietly waits outside for his son to do what he needs to do. Without fail, Dean will shuffle his way to the door, awkward and ashamed of relying on his father's help, no matter how much John reassures his boy that he's there for him always.

To Dean's dismay, once a day his father tells him it's time to shower, and John wonders if it's just because Dean doesn't want to be away from the window in the unlikely event that Sam is walking towards the house.

But Dean has always hated feeling unclean and his father knows it. John's firstborn being the king of hot water thieves after a hunt. While it would probably be tempting for his depressed and withdrawn son to stay curled up in his own dark thoughts and eschew bathing for a while, especially when it's a physically taxing prospect considering his injuries, John doesn't allow his boy to refuse.

Sometimes it pays to be a controlling bastard.

Dean _is_ getting stronger every day, but the journey upstairs to the large bathroom is difficult for him, even with his father hefting most of his weight. If it were up to John, he would simply lift Dean up and carry him upstairs and down, instead of making the arduous trip side by side, but the emotional toll it would take on his kid's pride would be catastrophic, so they endure the harder process, step by agonizing step.

Once there, John helps his son undress down to his boxers before he carefully wraps the slowly mending collarbone, giving the unnecessary but habitual reminder to not move that shoulder. Then, after he thoroughly wraps the leg cast, he runs the water until it's the right temperature, lays clean boxers, towels and soaps close by and leaves his son perched on the edge of the bathtub before heading back downstairs for a few minutes until he hears the water shut off again.

So far Dean has managed the daily bathing ritual without further injury, although his father can see the tight lines of pain on his face when he is finished. If John didn't know how mentally beneficial his son finds a hot shower, he couldn't bear to endure causing his boy more discomfort in making him do it.

If there is another benefit to the daily shower, it's that the task physically exhausts Dean. To the point that once he is dressed in clean clothes and assisted back downstairs, where John has already made up the couch with fresh sheets and blankets in the interim, Dean almost immediately falls asleep for the rest of the afternoon.

At least, while he slumbers, John's firstborn is spared the emotional pain he endures during his waking hours.

Dean has always been extremely low maintenance, right from the very beginning as a small child. Never one to bother his father with any routine personal needs once he was old enough to feed and dress himself.

Nothing has changed now either, really, aside from the hygiene assistance, and it's not like it's Dean's fault that the only showers available are on different floors than he is.

He doesn't ask for, or want really, entertainment or interaction. While Dean is in no shape to cook for himself, he has always been a huge lover of food. Now he doesn't even summon the voice to ask for anything special. He eats what his father gives him, because he knows that John won't take no for an answer, but there is no appetite or interest anymore.

John refuses to leave his boy for a simple thing like a trip to the store, so he's been relying on Singer to pick up groceries and supplies for them. It's become a routine now. He knows his son well enough to know what the kid likes to eat, so he calls Bobby with a list in the morning and the salvage man comes over in the afternoon laden with shopping bags.

The two of them sit with Dean and talk between themselves, leaving clear openings for the younger man to join the conversation at some point when he's ready to speak again. But, so far, that hasn't happened.

They will keep trying until it does.

John cooks for all three of them every night for dinner, finding his culinary sea legs again after years of defaulting to take-out most of the time for his kids. Dean really needs all the good vitamins and nutrition he can get right now to assist with his recovery, and his father makes sure that what's on offer is a far cry from bacon double cheeseburgers.

It's not a hardship, really. John likes to cook for his kids when he gets the rare chance. Mary couldn't boil water, so early on John got used to making simple meals for his growing family when he could get away with it without hurting his wife's feelings. If it hadn't been for him, the Winchesters would have existed on nothing but frozen meals from Piggly Wiggly.

He's pretty sure that Dean doesn't remember his mother's aborted attempts to make meals since the kid often tells Sam about "Mom's" meatloaf.

The three of them now eat on trays in front of the television, watching a few hours of mindless nothing, while John monitors his son's intake and lack of complaints regarding the healthier fare. It's during this time that casual talk turns to matters regarding the youngest Winchester, and it's only then that John sees his firstborn show any real interest in what is going on around him.

John has been slowly dying a death by a thousand cuts after watching his baby walk away from him. Knowing that Sam was leaving with the impression that his own father wanted him gone from their lives. Sammy doesn't understand the agony that a parent goes through when they find themselves making hard choices that are ultimately in their child's best interests.

John genuinely hopes that, when Sam is a father, he's never put in a position where he has to be the one that rips his own heart out for the sake of his kid, but it usually comes with the job.

At least John was able to see the bus that his son eventually climbed aboard, peering from his hiding spot at the bus terminal like some crazed stalker. He had suspected that his little creature of habit Sammy would revert to prior behavior and strike out for one of the hunter cabins like he did in Flagstaff, and he wasn't disappointed.

Long before Sam's bus arrived in Des Moines, Bobby had already been in contact with another hunter in the community named Steve Wandell who maintained a full time residence just a couple of hours away from Des Moines, and also owned the cabin down the road from Bobby's bolthole there.

Wandell, who has a daughter of his own with college ambitions just a few years younger than Sammy, understood the situation and sympathized. Happy to do what he could to watch out for the kid and make sure he got to his destination safely. With the significant head start, he was waiting at the station in Des Moines when Sam's bus pulled in.

The plan had been to discretely watch Sam from a distance as he made his way to the cabin.

A task made completely unnecessary when Sammy decided to _hitch_ his way there.

Because of that risky choice, Steve was able to pick Sam up and actually drive him to the cabin's doorstep, and John's temper still spikes when he thinks about how careless his child was. Wandell could have been anyone or any _thing_ , instead of the hunter sent to keep an eye on him, and Sammy was _Goddamn well_ _taught_ better than that.

Helpless under the circumstances and mentally weary, John tries to chalk it up as a one time thing. A result of exhaustion and desperation on the part of his baby boy, but it doesn't make the worried father sleep any better at night as he stresses over his son's safety in the cold, cruel world.

Of course, _he_ had been the one to toss his kid out into the street in the first place, so he wasn't exactly standing on any moral high ground anymore.

No one knew better than his father that Sammy was completely and utterly worn out after weeks of sitting near constantly by his brother's hospital bed. John fretted for the entirety of Dean's hospital stay that his little boy hadn't had a decent night's sleep since the accident. Had practically been starving himself to death during the long days and nights of his vigil.

What Sam had really needed that day when they finally got to bring Dean home was a good hot meal and serious rack time in his own clean bed.

Instead, what John's runaway emotions had given his baby was another winner-less, desperate fight, the whipping of his young life and a callous shove out the door.

There would never be forgiveness or absolution for that.

John knew it.

Dean knew it too, even if he wasn't saying it.

Of course, Dean wasn't saying _anything_ at the moment, so maybe, when John's firstborn regained his speech, the first thing he would do is chew his old man out.

That would be okay.

John would take it.

 _He would_.

Dean could yell to his heart's content about his father's role in the loss of their youngest, and John would let him vent his frustration as disrespectfully as Dean wanted to for once, because his son would be right.

John was the father in this equation, and it had been failure on his part that he hadn't been able to convince his little boy to stay home with his family where he belonged. That was all on John.

At least it helped, _a very little,_ to know that Sam was okay for now.

Wandell was doing regular checks on him as surreptitiously as possible, but because they had already met face to face, he couldn't be obvious about his presence in the area. So Singer had recruited his old hunting partner to bunk down in Wandell's neighboring cabin and be friendly from a distance. They had to be very careful, because Sam _was_ a Winchester and John fully expected his son to be aware of his surroundings, especially as he was now on his own.

Sam was smart enough and alert enough to detect the tiniest things out of the ordinary, and John could only hope that Wandell and Turner were as good as Bobby kept assuring him they were. John didn't want his already upset and stressed kid to run again, where maybe this time they couldn't follow. He'd never met Wandell, and had only worked with Turner once, a long time ago.

It was a lot of faith to put in near strangers.

While Sam had heard Rufus' name mentioned before over the years, he had no idea of what he looked or sounded like. With no other options available to him, John was counting on Rufus to keep his little boy safe for the time being.

Turner was a seasoned hunter, now in retirement. He not only had been Bobby's hunter partner for years, but also the one that had shown Singer the truth about the supernatural world. Right about the time he exorcised the demon he had been tracking out of Karen Singer, while Bobby stood shocked and bleeding in his own kitchen.

A falling out a few years ago had put Rufus on the road to retirement. John didn't know much about what happened in Omaha between Turner and Singer, but whatever it was had been the end of their days riding together. Bobby assured the desperate father that his personal conflict with Rufus didn't mean that John couldn't trust Turner to watch out for his boy.

Rufus had a soft spot for kids raised in the life.

With Turner as the most experienced of them all, John convinced himself that he had to trust Rufus' ability to keep Sam safe, and when he let himself think about the situation clearly, he was damn grateful to have men willing to help out when John was needed elsewhere.

John had never really been the kind of guy that made friends. Or kept them, once he had. Another personal failure that he couldn't dwell on at the moment.

The dryer buzzed and John put down his pen from where he was making journal notes at the kitchen table and got up to switch the laundry out. Maybe he was being a little more solicitous of their clean linen needs at the moment, but it helped to keep busy.

As usual, he started up a stream of nonsensical conversation as he worked, in an effort to get his son to engage him.

As usual, Dean ignored him in favor of the window.

Neither one of them seemed able to acknowledge that their separation from their youngest was permanent. John assured Dean and also _himself_ several times a day that Sammy would get this little rebellion out of his system and come meekly back home any day now.

It wasn't the first time the kid ran away, after all.

When John had collected Sam from the cabin in Flagstaff, he knew right away that his little boy was bursting with relief over having his father and brother come to retrieve him. Sam was older now, so John wasn't about to go fetch him this time, but it didn't waver his belief that his youngest would come back before the month was out.

Hopefully even sooner.

This kind of decision couldn't be taken from Sam now that he was older and could live on his own if he chose. The kid had to _want_ to come back if things were going to work out between them all. Like John had always told his boys when it came to the hunt.

 _Both feet in, or both feet out. Anything in the middle gets you dead._

He stands by that statement, regardless of how much it hurts at the moment to know that his son has abandoned the family mission.

Besides the approaching certainty that, sooner or later, John and Dean would have to head back out again.

Once Dean was healed up a little more, his father knew that the young man would be chomping at the bit to get back out on the road. John suspects that Sam never really had a firm handle on just how much Dean suppressed his own needs for the past year, or he wouldn't have been so cavalier about throwing his big brother's sacrifice back in his face like he had.

What John also suspected Sam didn't know about his brother, which really _does_ surprise him since the boys are so close, is that Dean lives like he does on the road because he won't commit himself to a wife and family until their mission is finished. Not because it's the life he chooses forever.

It's not that Dean doesn't want a different life.

John _knows_ his boy.

Knows that Dean is family first _always_ , so it's not that hard to believe that he wants one of his own, and a stable home to go with it, and John wants that for his kid too.

There are more days than not that John feels a deep, pressing guilt that he's keeping his firstborn from finding domestic happiness, but he always manages to eventually convince himself that Dean is still a young man of twenty-two.

There is plenty of time for his eldest to sow his wild oats and then be able to settle down once the demon is gone and Mary is avenged. When Sam is _safe_ and John can lay down his mantle and try to remember the man he used to be before all of this started.

Dean is going to make a hell of a father one day. Lord knows he already has years of experience filling in for John when he's been away from his kids. Some day, who knows. If he is very, very lucky, John might even be able to live long enough to get his revenge and still be around to play with his grandchildren.

It's a heady dream. One he doesn't allow himself to have very often.

But for now they have to keep on grinding until the job is done. John will make sure that Dean is healed up. Then they will pack up this house and head back out on the road. Get back in their cars and do what they do best.

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

And because John is a man who makes back up plans for his back up plans, he waits until Dean is once again asleep on the couch before he pulls out his phone and makes the call he's been putting off since the day Sam walked out.

Because he also knows that his youngest is just as stubborn as John is himself, and while he hopes for the best, he needs to prepare for the worst.

/

" _ **No!**_ "

Chest heaving, dripping in sweat in the oppressive humidity of the August night, Sam bolts up in the twin bed of the cabin.

There's nothing but darkness all around him, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust enough to see the shadowy outlines of the ragtag bits and pieces of furniture and a dull glow of the crescent moon streaming through the window of the main room.

His breaths are coming in shuddering gasps as his racing heart slowly starts to calm. Slipping the damp sheet away from the lower half of his body, he swings his legs off the bed and sits for a minute, his aching head held in between his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.

The temperature since his arrival in Des Moines is always too hot to really sleep well. Even wearing just his boxers to bed and covered in the thinnest of sheets, Sam roasts in his own juices as he tries to slumber. It doesn't help that he lurches awake every night without fail. Soaked in heavy streams of perspiration cascading down his flushed skin and pressing his curly hair flat to his scalp.

After almost two weeks, he has been hoping against hope that his chronic nightmare would have begun to taper off by now. But life is cruel sometimes, and apparently Sam is enough of a dick that a cosmic _someone_ has decided that he should be subjected every night to seeing his dead father and brother in the dark recesses of what little rest he does manage to get.

As if it isn't bad enough already that every breath he takes without them around feels like razor blades slicing through his lungs. So agonizingly sharp that he can almost taste the blood welling up in his airway.

Rubbing away the vestiges of sleep and tears from his eyes, he stands up and stumbles his way down the two steps from the open bedroom into the main room and over to the tiny kitchen area. Turning on the cold water faucet and letting it run for a minute before splashing his face and scooping up a handful to drink down.

Keeping the water at a steady increasingly cold stream, he splashes more on his face and then through his sweaty hair until he begins to feel a little relief from the oppressive heat.

The cabin barely has any electricity, so there isn't even a fan, let alone an air conditioner to cool things down. After the thunderstorm that had passed through earlier, the mid summer humidity had kicked up a dozen notches, making the stretch of land along the river feel like a swamp.

It would have been cooler to sit outside for a while, but the frequent summer storms tend to bring out the mosquitoes in full force and Sam wasn't interested in being eaten to death tonight.

By now he's familiar enough with the cabin's floor plan that he doesn't need to bother lighting the one small desk lamp that the cabin has, or either of the two oil lamps. He simply takes another drink of water from the slightly rattling faucet and then flops down tiredly on the scratchy fibrous plaid of the old sofa.

The cabin wasn't much, like most of Uncle Bobby's emergency shelters, but it has been enough to keep him housed after that horrible night in Sioux Falls.

Since his arrival in Des Moines, after catching a lucky ride from the bus station to the cabin, he's allowed himself to really break down and cry exactly once, not including the involuntary tears that came from the nightmares. He wasn't going to count those.

He'd had one real genuine gut wrenching breakdown, with sobs so deep and so desperate that they practically shook his entire body apart with their intensity. Only by wrapping his long thin arms around himself and squeezing tight was he saved from breaking into a million pieces.

Of that much, he's sure.

He had been doing well up until that point. A little mopey and sad, yes, but managing. Sam's ever present righteous indignation serves him well most of the time as far as keeping him on track and focused. He wouldn't have even guessed that he would finally just lose it because of the bag of groceries he unpacked.

His late night arrival didn't allow for any detours at that hour. No chance to stop for the basics that he knew he would need. Bobby's places were expected to have emergency rations, but that was never a guarantee if the last occupant hadn't taken the time or hadn't had the means to replace what they used.

Although Sam had been starving for the first time in weeks before the confrontation with his father and subsequent hasty departure, his appetite was well and truly quashed afterwards. So when Sam arrived in Des Moines, all he wanted to do was curl up in a bed and shut the world out, and so that's what he did. But, the next morning, he had been ravenous once again, and had needed to hike back out to the main road and the stores along the way.

Sam has money on his bank card, thanks to Dean's birthday present and the weekly allowance that Sam usually hoarded. Enough to get him started in California until his financial aid check arrives.

Money enough to buy his bus ticket to Palo Alto, even though he had been secretly hoping that his brother would have insisted on driving to school with him.

The wishful dream that Dean, although disappointed and annoyed, would have eventually led the way in the Impala, while Sam followed his big brother's lead, like always, behind the wheel of his Camaro. Somehow finding a way between the two of them to pay for Cherry's upkeep so that Sam had ready transportation to reach his family during holidays.

In Sam's dream they would have done the road trip together. Maybe stopping along the way to have one last evening out until they met up for Sam's first long break from classes. Dean would help him move into his dorm, picking up the necessary items for the room that all students need, along with whatever else Sam's big brother decided that the youngest Winchester shouldn't have to live without like he usually did.

They would tour the campus, with Sam pointing out the impressive facilities while Dean made eyes at all the scantily clad co-eds. Slapping his little brother on the back and congratulating the kid on his multiple opportunities to get laid during his first semester.

Sam would roll his eyes and shake his head, but inside he would be smiling, knowing that Dean was teasing him as a way to lessen Sam's nervousness over his new residence.

After a couple of last days together, during which time Sam would be able to slowly get used to the idea of being left on his own, Dean would reassure them both that enough protections were put in place to keep Sam safe. He would make a few snarky and sarcastic jokes to mask his sadness at leaving his little brother where he couldn't keep an eye on him full time, but both of them knowing that each one of them was dying a little on the inside from the impending separation.

He'd probably shove a wad of cash in Sam's pocket and threaten bodily injury if little brother didn't check in by phone _every day._ Then he'd clear his throat awkwardly and pull Sam into a huge hug and tell him that it was all going to be okay.

And Sam would believe him, because he always believed what Dean said.

On a few truly daring occasions, Sam had even imagined that his father was there as well. Walking every inch of the campus and striking terror in the hearts of anyone he suspected could do his boy harm. Carving protection sigils on every surface of the dorm and not giving fuck all who complained about it.

Dad would hug him and finally tell Sam how proud he was of him. Holding him close like he did when Sam was a small boy, and whispering how much he wished that Mom was there with them to see how well Sam has done for himself. Telling his youngest son that it was okay to dream different dreams than the rest of the Winchester men.

Sam didn't let himself daydream about this one that much. The pain of knowing it would never come true simply too much to bear.

He had gone to the store the morning after his arrival and bought supplies for the first week of his stay. Using a little of the unexpected and non-budgeted windfall from his go-bag Easter eggs to pay, since he hadn't counted on needing to support himself for over a month before school started.

Growing up poor, even if it had gotten better over the years, he was used to making do with little. It only took a few minutes to unpack the small amount of staples good for a week. A loaf of bread. A cheap bag of apples. Generic cans of beans and tuna for protein. A single jar of peanut butter.

Generic boxes of mac & cheese he would prepare without the benefit of the milk or butter that might spoil in the suspicious looking ancient fridge. He didn't have the spare cash to waste on perishables dependent on the whim of prehistoric appliances.

Sam had taken one long look at the mac & cheese and just started bawling like a baby. Remembering all the ways Dean would invent to change it up so that a fussy little brother would willingly eat it day after day. The memories of how hard his big brother had always tried to make their lives better and bearable crashing down on him like waves against sharp rocks.

It was clear to him then that his abandonment of his injured brother would never be forgiven. Not by Dean, and certainly not by himself, and the knowledge of that finally shattered Sam's carefully crafted resolve. It had been almost an hour before the trembling and the tears tapered off, taking Sam's appetite right along with them.

Leaving him exhausted and mentally strung out. A boiling pot of acid in his belly that burned all the way up to his throat while his head pounded relentlessly. As limp as a wet dish rag, he spent the remainder of the day zoned out on the twin bed. Eyes itchy and burning from his tears and a knot of tension suffocating his chest.

Knowing that he is well and truly on his own, with no one to look after him, or even care that he was broken and hurting and _God_ so lonely, he has had to become stronger now and talk himself into believing that he can do this. Having taken the stand that he was abandoning his family, he knew that it was time to man up and take care of himself.

No longer John's son, with a dad that was strict and gruff, but who had always been there for Sam when he really needed his father. Hugs and a gentle hand to ruffle his hair affectionately interspersed with the orders and never ending training and arguments that was the focus of Sam's resentment.

No longer Dean's little brother, with the surety that there would always be someone that would stand between Sam and the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Doing so many kind things that Sam couldn't even bear to catalog them without feeling the prickling onset of an emotional breakdown.

He couldn't really think about Dean that much. Sam's inner strength had its limits of endurance, and the knowledge that his beloved brother now probably hated him was agonizing when he allowed himself to feel it.

Sam _has_ been wanting to exert his independence a little more aggressively for a while now. A normal thing that happens as a kid grows up and begins to spread their wings. He had been raised in a tough life, with strict rules to obey and two overbearing guardians who thought nothing of flinging themselves into danger, even as they were relentlessly sheltering their youngest as much as they possibly could.

Sam may have been vehemently protected, but he was also taught extreme self reliance. His father never knowing if he wouldn't make it back home to his boys one day, and needing them to be able to stand on their own in case of disaster.

But just because Sam _can_ take care of himself, it doesn't mean that he doesn't miss his family, and the security he always felt at having them around.

As he now spends the days all alone, the silence surrounding him is sharp and accusing from the moment he wakes up until the moment he tries to sleep. A heavy weight of loneliness pressing down on him every time he closes his eyes and sees his brother's grief stricken face and battered body. Logically, he knows that once he is in school, there will be new people to meet, and new friends to make, but for now, he feels incredibly isolated.

Before the big fight, Sam had just about convinced himself that he would be okay when he left for school, because there would be so many new things to explore that wouldn't leave any time for feeling homesick. A whole new world really, and he was flooded with excitement over the prospect of new discoveries that didn't involve hunting.

But he had never factored in a scenario where he would be cast out and alone for a month beforehand. With nothing more to do than think of everyone and everything he has left behind to craft this new magical life.

He checks his phone dozens of times a day as he goes about his new routine of activities. Realistically reminding himself over and over again that, no matter how much he hopes, there won't be any calls from his father or brother.

That there will never be any again.

Not one telling him that it's okay if he comes back home until school starts. Or just to come back home at all really.

Not even one _demanding_ it.

That's the hardest thing to process. That his father, who exerts control in all things, is not calling with supreme authority to demand that his son return to the fold or, more surprisingly, that Dad hasn't roared up the small driveway to the cabin and bodily hauled his wayward son back to The Life.

Sam knows perfectly well that his family would have already found out _exactly_ where he was. If they were interested in actually knowing, that is.

In the back of his mind, Sam had more than a little subconsciously expected that, once his father's anger had abated, there was no way that John _freakin'_ Winchester was going to allow his kid to just walk away.

Thoroughly convinced that, any minute, the big black Sierra was going to come screeching to a halt outside and Dad was going to storm in, screaming louder than fuck, larger than life as usual, and simply _ordering_ Sam to pack his things and get his punk ass back home _where he belonged_.

And there was more than a few minutes each day when Sam knew he would do _exactly_ that if it meant that this ache in the pit of his stomach would ease. That there would be an end to inability to close his eyes without seeing the broken body of his devastated brother staring back accusingly at him for his duplicity and deception.

But Dad never comes.

And Dean never calls.

Sam has all the freedom he's ever wanted, here in this little ramshackle cabin. His first stop on his journey to get away from hunting and living his life. He's eighteen, an adult and now he makes his own rules.

No need to set the alarm on his phone to wake up at the ass crack of dawn anymore.

No curfew to obey, he can come and go as he pleases.

No off limits places to avoid, he can go where he wants.

No set time to hit the rack, he can stay up all night _*see alarm clock._

No list of chores to do. No guns to clean. No lore to study. No hunt to research.

It's all coming up Sam right now, and he should have no reason to complain since he's finally getting what he wants. Right?

So Sam accepts that he will continue to be cast out for the time being, and will be forced to endure the nightly torments that breach his mind in the darkness of the rundown cabin where he's taking refuge.

It makes it easier, really, to get through the days if he is feeding on a steady diet of anger and resentment against his father's actions.

Without Dad kicking Sam out of the house, it might have been just a little bit harder for Sam to justify leaving his critically injured brother behind without a second glance. This way, he can absolve himself largely of the guilt that bears down on him by blaming their father for Sam not being around to return the care and attention to Dean that his big brother was always so quick to bestow on Sam.

Regardless of what Dean's needs were, Sam's various sicknesses and injuries over the years had always taken priority.

Sam also convinces himself that he can take comfort in the surety that, if Dean really needed him, or if Dad really wanted Sam to come back and help during Dean's convalescence, then they would have already reached out to him.

But they haven't.

So, since it's obvious that he's not needed, it's not actually Sam's fault that they aren't speaking, right?

So why does it still hurt so much?

Pain sharp enough to punish him with endless sleepless hours of dark thoughts.

In retrospect, he should have thought about taking his dream catcher from the trunk of the Impala, but like so many other things that had slipped his mind while making his exodus from his home and family, it fell by the wayside, and now he's feeling more of the recurring ramifications of his decision.

Every night, without fail, he wakes up sweaty and shaking. Unable to get back to sleep no matter how hard he tries. The lingering images of fire and blood and death echoing behind his eyelids.

He can see it in his face now whenever he forces himself to look in the mirror, which isn't often. Not particularly fond of the person he sees staring back at him these days.

The cold, heartless boy that left his brother behind just when Dean needed him most.

The cabin has minimal bathroom facilities, with a very basic toilet and pull chain shower that, for some unfortunate reason, disperses only cold water. It's been hot enough so that cold showers aren't necessarily a tragedy right now, but he never feels quite clean enough afterwards either.

There's a well that feeds the kitchen sink, as well as the bathroom, but why the bathroom didn't share the same hot water tank as the kitchen, Sam doesn't know. Sometimes he just chooses to take what Dean snarkily calls a "whore's bath" at the sink instead of subjecting himself to another ice bath. With the heat being what it is since his arrival, he needs to wash more than once a day anyway.

A small clean tributary river flows in front of the cabin that strangely enough is actually warmer than the cold water of the shower, so he often strips down take a swim or two every day to relieve the summer heat and remove some more of the accumulating sweat from his skin. Sometimes he even gives thought to bringing a bar of cheap soap in with him to help scrub off the dirt and stickiness.

When you grow up having to occasionally squat in an abandoned house during a hunt for lack of a motel or cash to pay for one, you learn to make do with what you had.

Sam tries not to think about the warm, clean comfortable home he chose to give up when he contemplates washing himself where he can feel fish swim by.

It's a small mercy that he's squatting here in the heart of the warm summer, because he couldn't imagine how much more horrible it would have been in the winter time. Although the cabin does have a central stone fireplace that serves as the primary heat source for both the sectioned off living areas, it wasn't serving much of a purpose right now, other than making him feel subconsciously warmer just by looking at it.

But in the dark of night, his body slick with perspiration and his night terrors swirling around fresh behind his eyes, there's nothing he can do to make himself feel clean or safe. So he sits in the darkness of the unfamiliar hovel and tries to forget about the ones he loves.

No Dean or Dad to make him spiced milk. To let Sam curl up with his head in his father's lap, with the comforting scents of smoke, peppermint and soap reassuring him that he was safe. The deep, warm timbre of Dad's soothing voice as he carded his fingers through Sam's messy bedhead, or Dean's soft humming lulling him back to sleep while they chased the fears away.

At eighteen, Sam accepts that the time for comfort and coddling is over, now that he has made a man's choice.

Always independent, he still occasionally needed the physical affection any child craves when afraid. As well as knowing that he had his father and brother to fall back on if life becomes too rough and too frightening. The loss of which is devastating him.

It wasn't so much not having them around right _now._ It's the idea that he will _never_ have them watching out for him ever again. And when the thought of that gets to be too hard, he pushes it aside and allows himself to continue to believe that this is only a temporary arrangement. That, any moment, they will come for him.

Just like they always had in the past.

Perpetually tired from the lack of restful sleep, he's missing caffeine right about now. The cabin had actually come with a few staples after all upon further inspection. Some soup. Tins of potted meat. A box of saltine crackers. Half a honey bear. Sadly, a can of coffee wasn't one of them, and Sam hadn't wanted to spend what little extra money he had to buy one.

There was an almost empty box of black tea that he brewed once or twice, but it was bitter and not caffeinated enough to help with his headache. Because there are some things about a hunter's life that will always come second nature to him, Sam has a large bottle of aspirin among his things. He palms a pair of tablets a few times a day to chase off the migraines.

That's what he does now as he pushes himself off the sofa in the dim light of the main room. He dry swallows them, used to having to take meds on the run without always having the benefit of water to wash them down. He knows there will be no going back to sleep tonight and decides that maybe he needs to light one of the oil lamps after all.

It smokes and sputters for a minute before fully flaring to life, casting a pale glow over the main room. The cabin looks better now than it did when he arrived. With a lack of anything better to do, and unwilling to spend all his hours feeling sorry for himself, Sam has been steadily doing a deep clean of the place. Scrubbing and sorting and generally organizing as a way to earn his keep.

Bobby's cabins usually come with a small library of resources just in case. Although Sam's phone has service here, there is no internet, so a hunter would need to rely on getting their info the old fashioned way.

There is a library about five miles away. Sam has made the trek twice already, just to be able to scrounge their wifi. He uses the laptop that Dad gave him for his birthday a couple of months ago, chest pained with the guilt of having taken it with him.

Sam's anger and pride had him seriously consider leaving it behind in Sioux Falls for a brief moment before he left. He knows it was expensive. Knows how hard it would have been for Dad to swing the extra cash to buy it. Especially so close on the heels of their pricey vacation to DC, where Sam was allowed to basically have and do whatever he wanted. Assured that the funds to pay were available to them.

Dad had obviously purchased it for Sam to use on the job, with the olive branch of online college credits thrown in as a signing bonus for Sam's full time enlistment in the Winchester Army. Sam really had no business taking it with him under the circumstances, other than the fact that he loved it, and the money to buy another one to help with his school work wouldn't be there when he arrived in California.

Just another example of Sam's selfishness, he supposed. Although he knew, deep down, that his dad loved him enough that he really would want Sam to have it, regardless of the broken strings between them.

At the library, Sam catches up on his email. Messages from friends either at their new schools or excited about leaving for them. News from Stanford regarding finances and orientation events and such.

Another time of the day when he foolishly hopes that maybe there will be some communication from his father or brother. Not that he's really expecting anything. If Dad or Dean wanted to get in touch with him, they would obviously call. He's not even sure Dad knows what email is.

Sam only has a few more days of service on his pre-paid monthly service for his phone, and he would need to spend some of his cash to re-up for another thirty days. Even if his family didn't want to ever talk to him again, he couldn't even think of not maintaining the last avenue of contact with them.

Dean had always paid for Sam's phone service, but the young future student has already budgeted out the necessary funds from his financial aid check to cover the cost while he's at school.

Maybe, after enough time had passed, at least his big brother would want to talk to him again. Sam would pray every night until that happened.

Waiting for the sun to rise, Sam decides to pray again right now.

He goes to his knees in front of the scratchy couch and bends over clasped hands propped on the seat cushion. His eyes tightly shut as he pleads with a higher power for forgiveness for his selfishness and his cruel abandonment of his injured brother. He begs for mercy over his failings that have led to the estrangement with his family, and asks for divine intervention to persuade his father to change his mind and accept Sam's need for normalcy over the family mission.

Maybe if he does this enough, the ache relentlessly squeezing his heart will go away and he'll be allowed to sleep again. Maybe if he does this enough, he'll get to see his family again.

He prays for a long time.

When his knees begin to protest the hard wood floor underneath, he pulls himself up and swipes a hand across his eyes. He's not crying, he swears. Just allergies to all the river pollen kicking up from the humidity that is already rising in the early morning air. His stomach gives the slightest rumble of interest, and since he's already awake he figures he might as well eat.

Food doesn't really have much appeal to him right now which is good since he can't afford much. It's simply necessary fuel for his weary body. Without a lot of thought he slices up an apple and makes a peanut butter sandwich. Deciding that the tea might not be horrible if he puts in enough of the honey, he boils some water for that too.

The sun starts to rise as he waits for the water to bubble. There is a foggy haze hanging low over the river and he can hear the buzzing of insects heralding another humid day on the horizon. Involuntarily he swipes his hair off his forehead in anticipation of approaching heat.

Maybe his taste buds are getting used to the plainer fare, but the tea isn't half bad this morning, and Sam hopes that it gives him enough of a jolt that he doesn't feel like a zombie all day. Although he has neglected his PT regimen as a peevish revolt of his father's iron clad control, he has to admit that he feels more sluggish now that he doesn't exercise as much. He thinks that maybe he will start running again tomorrow if the weather isn't too disgustingly moist.

After he eats, he washes the one plate and one cup. The one butter knife and one spoon. Just one of everything. Just like him. Just one Winchester. All alone.

Before he gets bogged down in depression so early in the morning, he strides over to the bookcase and picks up one of the lore books, not paying any attention to the title or contents. Disinterested but needing distraction, he reads for a while, not actually retaining any of the information. There's no reason to even pretend anymore that this world holds any meaning for him, so he throws it aside in futile disgust.

In the end he knows it was that certainty that had forced Sam's hand enough where he walked away from his family. The knowledge that, no matter his good intentions, he couldn't make himself to want anything to do with the hunting world. In the past he had done what he had because his father ordered him to and because his brother expected him to.

Loyal, whether or not his dad and brother can see it, a part of Sam's personality has always been to want to do the right thing for his family. For a while he thought that hunting with them _was_ the right thing, but after many sleepless nights, especially the ones at his comatose brother's bedside, he knew that the right thing was for him to get as far away from The Life as possible.

It was the right thing for _him_ , and it was the right thing for _them_. Even if they didn't realize it yet.

Although, maybe Dad realized it already.

After all, his father had let him go easily enough. If you call whipping the daylights out of Sam _easy_. Still, Sam was pretty sure that his father's actions had been more a punishment for Sam's culpability in his brother's injuries and not necessarily because he was going away to school.

If Dad felt that Sam was a good hunter, one that would positively contribute to the family cause, he wouldn't have told Sam to get out, right? John Winchester was the kind of guy that would have gone behind his son's back and acted on Sam's behalf to refuse Stanford's offer before his son had any chance to find out or fix it.

Dad would have torpedoed Sam's shot with swift and lethal intent, and it would have been all over long before Sam could have had any hope to salvage it.

That's what Dad would have done if he really wanted his youngest boy to stay with them. He wouldn't have pushed Sam out the door without a second glance like he had. Literally dropping him off at the bus station like an unwanted stray puppy. No questions as to where Sam was going or how he was planning on taking care of himself. No concern as to whether or not Sam had money or shelter.

Fathers that loved their kids and wanted them around didn't act like that.

Of course, Sam had made a stand and declared himself an adult, so why should Dad have worried about him anymore? At his age, his father had been shipped off to the jungles of Vietnam. Fighting for his very life everyday. All Sam was doing was going off to an easy life on a posh college campus with a full ride in his pocket.

He didn't need his father's concern.

Didn't mean he wasn't gutted by not getting it.

Maybe Dad felt that he had taught Sam well enough on how to take care of himself. Counting on Sam learning his lessons over the years on how to survive and hustle money if he had to.

And why not?

Dean had been taking care of himself for a long time. Taking care of Sam too. Dad always made sure they had the basics of food, clothing and shelter, but it had been Dean that earned the money for the fun things. Besides insisting on contributing as much as possible to their daily upkeep.

Of course Dad wouldn't worry about Sam since Dean had been able to do it.

But then Dean was the golden boy. The perfect son.

Sam was the disappointment. The screw up.

Maybe Dad _was_ worried about where Sam was living these days. Whether or not he was okay and if he had food and safety.

Maybe Dad had simply grown tired of his youngest son's long litany of complaints and dissatisfaction and had finally washed his hands of Sam.

Maybe Dad was even more disgusted with Sam's eagerness to abandon Dean than Sam was himself.

Maybe Dad was right.

/

Rufus Turner had thought he was done with this all. Years and years of dedication to the hunt, he took himself out of the game once The Life had taken his daughter from him.

That was finally a price too big to pay.

Born and raised in Memphis to musical parents, he grew up backstage of the clubs on Beale Street listening to his daddy play guitar while his mama sang. An only child, he enjoyed the rhythm and flow of the area, bursting on the cusp of a cultural revolution and the civil rights movement.

He had been given a wonderful childhood. His father was a talented musician. In demand with several bands all over town, he had his pick. Providing a better life for his little family that many could have hoped for during that age.

Memphis had always been a little more progressive than a lot of other southern cities when it came to the evolution of civil rights. With the landmark decision of _Brown v Board of Education_ and the growing scores of African American owned businesses and political involvement, Rufus had been front and center for an entire movement in American history in his own home town.

His daddy made good money playing the blues. Enough that Rufus' mama could stay home with him comfortably, and the family lived in a small but respectable wooden two story home in a pleasant and fairly recently integrated residential neighborhood. Their next door neighbors were Judge and Mrs. Stern. An older Jewish couple in their late sixties who affectionately adopted the Turner family in the absence of their own children. Grown and moved away over the years.

Mama had the voice of the most beautiful songbird. Often Rufus would sit outside the door to the kitchen and listen to her sing lilting spiritual melodies as she went about her day. Sometimes Mama would be persuaded to join his daddy for one the gigs he took on special occasions. She preferred being home with her son, but she also missed performing.

Rufus loved hearing his parents make music together on stage.

Like all hunters, he came to The Life through loss. A wandering pack of vampires had been making their way through the clubs and bars of Memphis the summer that Rufus was eleven years old. Preying on the musicians and attendees alike without mercy. His parents being among the eventual victims.

Rufus was supposed to be at home asleep the night his mother and father were eaten. While he could sometimes persuade his parents to allow him to accompany them to their gigs, the recent rash of violent attacks in the area had them wary of taking their son with them on this particular occasion. Truthfully, they weren't thrilled of going themselves either, but Rufus' daddy had a contract to honor, and he was a man of his word. So, they went.

After an unproductive argument with them, Rufus was ordered to stay safely at home. Under the watch of Mrs. Stern, the sweet next door neighbor that had been babysitting him off and on since their move. Unfortunately, Mrs. Stern was getting older and her hearing wasn't what it once was, so it hadn't been too hard for the energetic young man to scale down the tree outside his window and sprint the lengthy distance to the club where his parents were appearing.

Beale Street was alive and hopping that night as usual. Clubs with their front doors wide open, letting music escape to the outside to beckon patrons in for a drink and a show. The air was electric, and Rufus could practically feel the sizzle on his skin as he weaved in and out of pedestrian traffic on his way. There was a heady scent of steaks and barbecue from the many food joints bursting with customers out for an evening of fun, and a cloud of cigarette smoke from people who still thought that smoking was healthy for them.

Having gone to this specific club with his parents in the past, he knew just where to hide in the shadows of the dim lighting inside so he could hear the melodic beauty of his mother's voice and watch the deep loving looks between his parents on the stage. The two of them becoming so much more than just his mama and daddy when they performed together.

Because he wasn't supposed to be there, he kept himself carefully cloaked in the darkness during their break, not daring to follow them outside to the back where the whole band shared a smoke before the next set.

It wasn't until he heard the screams that he realized that there was evil stalking them.

By the time he made his way to the back, it was already all over, and the last image he has of his parents were of their dead, anguished faces as pale, glossy eyed things drank from their necks. Too stunned to do or say anything, he stared, like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to really process what he was seeing. So horrified and quietly numb that his presence wasn't even noticed.

The next thing he knew, a young man in dark clothes and carrying what looked like a large knife was bounding into the back alley. Cutting and slashing his way through the necks of the cannibals feasting on Rufus' parents and their friends, the blood still ruby red warm and dripping from their mouths as the stranger almost effortlessly took their heads.

That was when Rufus finally threw up.

Because civilians are willing to believe just about any story they get told when they don't have another explanation for the end result of a supernatural attack, the entire city bought into the laughable idea that a rabid cougar had somehow meandered into the city and was randomly attacking the music scene. The whole murder spree was quietly covered over for the sake of tourism dollars and things soon went back to normal on Beale Street.

The knife wielding stranger that had eventually noticed Rufus cowering in the shadows introduced himself to the traumatized boy as Daniel Elkins. Unable to deny what Rufus had witnessed with his own young eyes, Daniel explained all about vampires and the supernatural world while he methodically disposed of the headless corpses. Eventually helped by a shell shocked Rufus too dazed to process his parents gruesome end at that moment.

Elkins showed him how to stage a scene. Arranging the murder victims to support the cougar story as he explained the necessity of providing even a flimsy alternative to the truth. Later, he gave the dazed boy a large measure of whiskey to numb him even further before quietly driving the traumatized child back home.

Parked on the side of the road in front of the formerly happy Turner home, they spent a few minutes of silence in the car, the young boy's building rage surging to overtake his devastation. In that moment Elkins saw the need for revenge and blood lust in Rufus' eyes and made the decision every hunter makes at some point. He gave the boy his phone number as well as an offer to train him when he was a little older if Rufus was interested, and then drove away into the night.

Rufus didn't have any other family members to turn to after his parents' deaths. Fortunately for him, Judge and Mrs. Stern were more than willing to have him come and live with them, and the retired justice had the legal pull to make it happen with minimal fuss. Their children already being grown and living far away, the Stern family nest was empty and, although they wished the circumstances were different, they were exceptionally happy to take Rufus in.

It had been hard to accept the loss of his beloved parents. Rufus had been especially close to both of them, what with being a little family of three for his entire life. He spent most of the first few months withdrawn in grief and contemplation over his simmering need for revenge.

Of course there hadn't been anyone to get revenge upon, what with Elkins beheading the beasts that had taken Rufus' parents from him. Elkins had also assured him that the entire nest would be cleaned out before Daniel left the Memphis area. The love Rufus had for his parents was a living, vital part of him and the memories of that night stayed with him every minute of every day.

The need for vengeance never left him either.

As the years went by, Rufus grew up into a strong and forbidding young man. Watching the brave men and women of Memphis fight for real change and a better life, he was inspired to make his own mark on the world. Although afraid of what a life with Elkins might entail, he knew he needed to be brave for his parents' sake.

He was there when Martin Luther King, Jr. made his _I Have Been to the Mountaintop_ speech. Inspired by the man's grit and determination. He grieved along with the rest of the city when King was murdered in cold blood the very next day. It was then that Rufus knew that his fear couldn't stop him from making sure that no other innocent family suffered like his own had.

With that, he had made his decision to join Elkins once he was old enough to strike out on his own, and knew he would need physical and mental strength to do the job. In secret, he trained for hours, building his body and his mind.

His foster parents were kind and loving, but he never felt the ability to confide in them the actual story of his mother and father's true demise. They supported his physical and academic endeavors, not knowing that it was the precursor to his exit from their normal family life.

Raised a Southern Baptist during childhood, Rufus attended temple services out of respect for the Sterns. Eventually, he embraced the tenets of both faiths for a while before finally converting to Judaism. He was given a late Bar Mitzvah just in time to sit shiva for his foster father, when Judge Stern died unexpectedly of a heart attack just a couple of months after Rufus' sixteenth birthday.

After the death of his foster father, his foster mother became lost in her own grief, joining her husband in the hereafter just a little over a year later and, once again, Rufus mourned for the last person he considered a parent. On good terms but not especially close with his significantly older foster siblings, and almost a legal age of eighteen, Rufus called Daniel Elkins and officially joined The Life a few weeks later.

His first kill was a werewolf just a few months after joining Elkins in Colorado to start his training. He was young, stupid and scared shitless, practically tripping over his own feet chasing the damn thing, but when he shot his silver bullet through the heart, it struck straight and true. That night he and Daniel celebrated with a shot of Johnnie Walker Blue. A large step up from the regular jug whiskey that the two of them drank together in their off time.

It tasted like sweet victory to Rufus.

Like most hunters, Rufus learned to live for the hunt. He apprenticed with Daniel for a couple of years before moving on to others to learn their specialties. A young, energetic man, he lived fast and hard on the road. Leaving a trail of monster bodies and love struck and broken hearted women in his wake.

Daniel and the others had taught him the cold, honest rules of hunting, and over the years he made his own iron clad list that he lived by. Feeling that any sort of deviation from them would only lead to his body burning on a pyre before he was out of his twenties.

 **Rule #1:** _It is what it looks like_.

Rufus believing in the simplest answer usually being the correct one. Never overthink a hunt. It wastes time.

 **Rule #2:** _Know them better than they know you_.

Fairly self explanatory in a world where your prey knowing more about who you are than you know what it is being a sure fire way to get yourself killed.

 **Rule #3:** _It can be both_.

Don't get caught up in just thinking it's one thing going bad. You might be looking for two monsters. It happens more than you think.

 **Rule #4:** _Never hit the same town twice._

For obvious reasons. Hunters tend to leave a mess behind, and the last thing you need is to be recognized as the guy that was seen chopping off heads.

 **Rule #5:** _It ain't dead until it's in five pieces._

Never do a half assed job when you're hunting. Make sure the damn thing's not coming back.

The rules were simple. Sensible. And anyone who did a job with Rufus was expected to abide by them, or don't bother climbing into his ride. He was planning on living a long life, thank you very much.

Eventually, after lonely years on the road, Rufus began a long term relationship with one woman that was off again more than it was on again over the course of two decades. During that time, she gave birth to his daughter and Rufus finally felt true love for another person for the first time since the death of his parents.

He knew from his interactions with other hunters that The Life was hard on a child, and while Rufus' girlfriend and daughter knew what he did when he wasn't with them, he didn't bring his work home with him either. He wanted his daughter knowledgeable and protected, but safe from the actual horrors he dealt with on a daily basis. His daughter was just as beautiful as his own mother had been, and the first time he heard his little girl sing, he cried. Swearing that his mother had been reborn in her granddaughter's voice.

Rufus spent as much time with her as he could, talking to her every day when he couldn't be there in person. It was inevitable that he missed some things during his daughter's childhood, but he tried to make them few and far between. He was fortunate that she had a mother to care for her that wasn't a part of The Life. Although he and his girlfriend had tempers as hot as their feelings for each other, they never let their personal squabbles get in the way of his relationship with his daughter.

He was a man blessed after so many years of pain and suffering.

It was just after his landmark thirtieth birthday when he encountered a salvage man by the name of Bobby Singer, and his life would change dramatically after that.

Rufus had been chasing a demon for several weeks. An even nastier sort than usual who got its kicks by possessing wives and murdering their spouses. Rufus followed the omens and its bloody trail to a pretty blue two story house that was the home of Robert and Karen Singer in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

He got there too late to save Karen.

Singer had stabbed his possessed wife multiple times, acting more out of instinct than self defense, and in him, Rufus saw another that was bound for The Life. He got the demon out of Karen's lifeless body and proceeded to teach Bobby about the things that go bump in the night.

Like his own introduction, Singer didn't come on board straightaway. He had needed time to absorb the rapid fire way his simple, unimportant life just went all to shit in the blink of an eye. Singer wandered for a while, getting his head on straight and picking things up as he went along. A while later, he returned to Sioux Falls, ready to plunge headfirst in the life of a hunter when he dialed Rufus' number.

Rufus and Bobby rode together for a long time after that. Having a partner on the road had opened Rufus' eyes to just how lonely he had become over the years, and it was nice to finally have someone that he could count on to have his back. They argued and bickered like an old married couple most of the time, but it was true friendship that ran deep.

Until it didn't.

It wasn't as if they didn't try to get another hunter to help out on that last case. They did try. Really. It was just dumb misfortune that no one was close enough or available enough to be the third set of eyes they had needed for this last hunt in Omaha.

Although Rufus didn't let his daughter hunt with him as she grew up, she knew the score. Singer had even met her on several occasions when Rufus would be close enough to her mother's house to spend time with his daughter. Where they met and what they did together depended on whether or not Rufus was embroiled in a cage match with her mother at the time.

Sometimes Bobby would be holed up in the kitchen with young Miss Turner while her parents went at it in another room, either fighting or fornicating. The two of them talked a lot and got pretty close after a while. A shared and long suffering camaraderie built up over years of entertaining each other during the latest make up or break up of her parents.

The hunt in Omaha was a bad one, but Rufus and Bobby could handle the dirty work. They just needed someone they could count on to be the lookout while they got the job done. In what would be one of the true grievous mistakes Bobby Singer made as a hunter, he had been desperate enough to ask Rufus' little girl to help out. By the time Rufus had found out, it was too late to stop her and get someone else, so he reluctantly allowed it.

A catastrophic mistake with rippling effects that destroyed everything in its wake. She didn't have the first hand knowledge to realize that she was in danger, and it was all over before her father got to her. Rufus walked away from The Life that day, and his partnership and friendship with Singer as well. It was years before he would agree to speak to his former partner again.

Strangely enough, that initial reconciliation had been over Sam Winchester that time as well. Singer knew that Rufus had a soft spot for hunter's kids, and when the young boy went missing for two weeks, Rufus had been willing to come out of retirement just long enough to watch the salvage yard for any signs of the boy while Bobby chased soft leads through the southwest.

Now Rufus once again found himself looking out for little Sammy and wondering just how in the hell he had agreed to this.

John Winchester had a reputation in the hunting world. That wasn't necessarily always a compliment either. The man had skill that couldn't be denied. For a civilian that came late to The Life, he had certainly made up for lost time. Other hunters knew him to be a good man, if you didn't cross him. If you did cross him, better get the hell out of the way if you knew what was good for you.

Only a few hunters had the slightest idea that John had kids when the boys were really little, and God himself couldn't help you if you even entertained the notion of looking at them funny. John wasn't known for his sense of humor where his boys' safety was concerned.

In general, he kept them far away from the usual hunter hot spots. Lord knows that Ellen Harvelle hadn't set eyes on them since they were knee high to grasshoppers. She certainly made sure that everyone knew exactly how upset she was over that. Having grown attached to them when John had them at the Roadhouse for little Sammy's very first Christmas. Rufus himself had found his ears bleeding from the ranting she did over how much mothering they were sorely in need of.

Kids had no business being in The Life as far as Rufus was concerned.

So when Singer called, needing a friendly unfamiliar face to keep an eye on Sam Winchester who had made a break from his family in favor of a fancy college education, Rufus couldn't say with any kind of honesty that he blamed the kid.

In fact, he was rooting for the boy.

 _Run, little Sammy. Run._

Rufus would have wanted his little girl to have done just the same. She was headed for Juilliard right before the job in Omaha.

It hadn't taken much to once again coax Rufus away from his little house in Canaan, Vermont where he had been hiding from the world for the past decade. Just the briefest of explanations that the boy of one of their own was leaving The Life for greener pastures and needed a little bit of babysitting for a few weeks.

That's how Rufus found himself bunking down in the one room cabin on a mosquito infested riverbank in Iowa, dead in the heat of August. Unlike Bobby, Wandell maintained his place, so Rufus was pretty sure that he was having a better time of it than the Winchester kid was.

He watched the boy from a distance during the day. It was obvious that Sam knew he was being watched, and Rufus had to chuckle to himself that Singer wasn't wrong when he said the kid was good. Too bad that the boy had no stones for hunting. Both Bobby and John thought the kid was a natural, and after two weeks of monitoring him, Rufus was inclined to agree.

He gave consideration to actually introducing himself to the boy to give them both some company. Not as himself, mind you, because Rufus was pretty sure that his name had spilled off Singer's drunk tongue a time or twenty, and maybe not in the sweetest of ways. But the risk of Sam figuring out that he was talking to a hunter was too great. If the kid was as smart as everyone claimed he was, chances were he'd make Rufus in a heartbeat.

So he settled for the occasional wave as the boy headed down to the water's edge. Although he was pretty sure that the boy was giving him a knowing smirk whenever their eyes met. _Message received_ , Rufus thought to himself, and they kept the charade up day after day.

It was only for a couple more weeks, and then Rufus could go back home, maybe feeling a little better about himself if the kid got to his school safe and sound.

A task his own daughter had never been able to accomplish.

/

Caleb finally comes to visit Dean and John during the last week of August. Just days before Dean is scheduled to get his leg cast off and hopefully starts to work on getting his neglected muscles back in shape.

He's twenty flavors of apologetic as he comes bursting into the little house. Deep in a hunt in the Florida Keys for weeks before he heard about Dean's accident. Caleb had called John as soon as he got the news and the two of them had agreed that Dean wasn't necessarily in the right mind for company for a while.

But now John needs a couple of hours away from the house, and Singer's been called in on a job with Martin Kreaser. Still immobile, Dean can't be left alone just yet, and his father has no intention of doing so, regardless of the errand he needs to run. Fortunately, Caleb was more than happy to see his surrogate little brother, especially under the circumstances.

Dean barely gives Caleb a passing glance when he arrives. Immediately turning his stare back out the living room window where John is almost positive his firstborn has worn a hole through the glass just by the force of his laser focus alone. Caleb knows what's been going on and goes with the flow. If he's wounded that Dean refuses to even say hello to him, he hides it well.

It's all too clear that Dean knows something's up. Although John hasn't said a word to indicate that he would be leaving the house for the first time since bringing his son home from the hospital, Dean is as tense as a bow string. Involuntarily flinching every time his father walks within five feet of the front door.

Caleb easily carries on a one way conversation, comfortably parked in John's usual chair right next to the couch. He tells a steady stream of dirty jokes that need no response as he flips through the channels on the television. Dean acknowledges nothing, his body growing more taut as the minutes pass.

All too soon, John knows he can't put off the inevitable anymore. As he approaches the couch and sits down on the coffee table next to his son, Dean's eyes close in resignation and his father doesn't miss the tightly clenched fingers practically ripping holes in the couch fabric as Dean prepares himself for another abandonment.

"Dean," John starts gently, "I'm going out for an hour to pick up some groceries. I'll be back soon, son. I promise."

Dean doesn't open his eyes or acknowledge his father's words. His only response being a firmer clenching of his jaw so hard that John's teeth ache in sympathy.

"Bobby's out of town, kiddo," he tries again. "We need some stuff, so I have to go this time. Caleb's going to stay with you."

John can't sit there a moment longer and watch the desperate thrumming of his son's body. Sooner or later both he and Dean will need to leave this house and move on, and the longer John waits, the harder it's going to be on his firstborn. It's time to rip the damn bandage off.

He reaches over and runs his hand affectionately over Dean's uncharacteristically longer hair, giving a passing thought to how long it's been since his son let his short spikes grow out. John makes a mental note to take Dean to a barber right after the cast comes off.

The sooner Dean feels like his old handsome cocky self, the better.

As John stands, Dean's hand shoots out, almost as if he's going to grasp his father around the wrist, but it's quickly retracted and tucked firmly against Dean's chest as his forehead puckers in pain. John almost decides right there and then to cancel the meeting he needs to get to, and that he's already late for, but he needs to hold firm.

For Dean's sake and for Sam's.

He grips his son's shoulder, willing some of his own strength and love into his touch.

"I'll be back soon, son."

Somehow he manages to force himself out the door and down the driveway, but when he foolishly looks back at the house, he sees Dean's face staring forlornly out the window.

Somehow, the face he sees is an exact replica of the one of his four year old son, the first time John left on a hunting trip.

Somehow, it's harder for John to leave this time than it was then.

/

They're waiting for John at the diner. Already seated and spread out around a round table towards the back. Robert Campbell, with his tall imposing form, is easy to spot from a distance.

John wasn't expecting quite so many of them, and he feels a small sense of unease over the growing number of people now privy to his son's future whereabouts and safety. He has to keep reminding himself that he has come to trust Robert over the past few months, and John is rarely wrong about who he chooses to let into his inner circle.

Especially where his sons are concerned.

Robert stands to greet him with a hand extended in welcome, and John shakes it with genuine respect, if not quite warmth. He doesn't think the two of them will ever feel like family exactly, but John does recognize the need to have the head of the Campbell clan on his side in his efforts to protect his youngest.

The Campbells take family loyalty _very_ seriously.

At the table are four other people. A boy and a girl that look to be around Sammy's age. The boy is blond and quiet with a slight resemblance to Mary in facial features and a cautious observation in his eyes that John recognizes in his own firstborn son. The girl is his direct opposite. Dark curly hair and a large mischievous grin, like she knows a secret about you, but isn't telling anytime soon.

Next to the girl is a strange looking dude with a mullet, wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off his pathetic attempt at biceps. John almost feels sorry for him. His boys had more muscle tone before puberty. He grunts a greeting at John and returns his attention to a laptop that looks like he made it out of dumpster waste.

The last occupant of the table is a deal breaker as far as John is concerned. It's the pompous little asshole that was working the gate the first time John drove to the Campbell family compound, and there is no way that John wants that obnoxious little shit anywhere near his kid.

Robert senses the impending outburst and lays a cautionary hand on John's arm, wisely removing it just as quickly when he sees the poisonous look on John's face from the presumption.

"Christian is very good at his job, John," Robert says quietly and calmly. "And he will do as he is told," he states a little more firmly in the young man's direction.

Under his uncle's withering glare, the smug smile falls from Christian's face and he squirms uncomfortably for a brief second before clearing his throat.

"I'm happy to help my cousin in any way possible, sir," he says, looking John straight in the eye. "Campbells stick together."

John feels the urge to point out that Sam is a _Winchester_ , but he restrains himself. He may not like it, but these people _are_ Mary's family and Sam has a right to benefit from their extensive network of manpower and resources.

Especially since his little boy will most certainly refuse to ever see _him_ again after what has gone on between them. John will swallow a little pride if it means keeping his kid safe.

At the end of the day, he appreciates that they have all traveled the long distance from the family compound in Michigan to meet with him, and he tells them so. With Dean as he is, there was no way that John could make the trip himself, and time is growing short. Sam's school will begin in a couple of weeks, and these plans have to be finalized before he arrives on campus.

They all order coffee, except for mullet man. He shamelessly orders what John suspects to be half the menu. By the lack of reaction on the part of the others, this doesn't seem to be an isolated incident. The situation growing only more bizarre when the guy's face falls in disappointment when he's informed that they don't serve beer before noon. John likes his beer too, but he has his limits.

Getting back to the work at hand, John's surprised at how much they have managed to accomplish in the couple of weeks since he first called Robert to explain the situation, and he's even more surprised to find out that they have the eighties haired stoner to thank for that.

Apparently there's not much that can't be wrangled when you have a computer genius working on your side, and John wonders if Sammy is already well on his way to being as handy with his laptop as this kid Ash is. A flash of pride comes across him as he thinks about his scary smart boy, followed quickly by the ache of missing him so much.

Even more surprising is the fact that Ash comes to the party via Ellen Harvelle. While John and Ellen aren't exactly on close speaking terms anymore, he knows that their distance is on him. Ellen has more than once over the years expressed her forgiveness for his part in Bill's death, and it's only John's guilt that has prevented him from seeing her and her daughter more often.

Robert and Ellen are also in communication, and she has volunteered Ash's services without asking specific details. Ellen's never been one to put her nose in another's business unless she's invited. All Robert told her is that he needed technical help for one of the Winchester boys and that was good enough for her.

Ellen has always been good people, and as much as John dislikes being in anyone's debt, he makes a mental note to call her later and express his appreciation. Not always being the bastard that most of the hunting community thinks he is.

Ash has managed to not only get an acceptance at Stanford for Mark, the quiet blond kid, but also a housing assignment just a few doors down from Sammy's room. He blithely informs John that even a fancy school like Stanford has last minute drop outs and cancellations, and he acts like it was nothing at all to hack into their computer system and shoot Mark's fake persona to the top of the waiting list.

Mark is going to handle surveillance of the dorm where John's son will soon call home, and possibly some of Sam's classes once he picks them. Robert is obviously very proud of Mark's intelligence and talents and he boasts to John that the young man is every bit as brilliant as the youngest Winchester. He will fit in at the school without issue as far as academics is concerned.

Ash has arranged a job in the _Green Library_ for Gwen, the little curly haired brunette. It's a part time job as an assistant at the information desk, and Gwen, being born into The Life, knows her way around the libraries and research dance floors like a pro. With Sammy practically living in libraries most of his life, Robert expects him to spend a lot of time there. Gwen will keep an eye on things while he is.

Finally, Christian will be working for Stanford's campus security and run daily sweeps for anything supernatural. This job was a little more tricky to obtain, and Ash is unwilling to divulge exactly how he made it happen. Only that he did. Stanford is a city unto itself and employs a vast number of people, and John is assured that none of the additions that Ash has made to the campus will send up any kind of red flare.

John leaves the meeting still nervous, but feeling slightly better regarding his son's safety. Of course he has every intention on swinging by the campus as often as he can to check on his boy, but he won't always be close enough to watch for everything. At least this way, Sam is protected when his father can't be around.

It's not what John wanted, but for now it will have to do.

He gets back to the house ten minutes earlier than he promised Dean he would, carrying two large greasy bags of take out food from the diner. Inside are all of his firstborn's favorites. His father's poor attempt to make up for the stress he knows he has caused his son with his absence today.

At some point soon, John will tell Dean all about the meeting he just had but, for now, he suspects that any attempt to persuade Dean that Sammy will be safe in California will just come across as another failure on John's part for not being able to keep Sam home where he belongs.

And John simply doesn't have the strength to face his oldest son's recriminating face right now.

Instead he strides back into the house, already knowing that Dean has watched his arrival with undisguised surprise in his green eyes, and John tamps back the guilt he feels once again from his boy's trained lack of faith in his father's devotion to him.

He spreads out the bacon cheeseburgers, chili cheese fries, onion rings and three kinds of pie on the table in front of the couch. Taking a seat next to his significantly less tense son, he presses his shoulder against Dean's in a comforting gesture and happily notes the increase in appetite as Dean digs into the food.

For a few minutes, with Sam on the way to being safe, and Dean on the way to being mended, he doesn't feel like a complete failure as a dad.

/

Twice now, Sam has packed up his things and headed for the bus station. Intent on swallowing his pride and going back home where he belongs.

Twice now, Sam has gone halfway the distance before he changes his mind. Tucking his tail in and running back to the cabin like the coward he is.

He tells himself that his father and brother are long gone from Sioux Falls by now. Back out on the road and happy. Once again a perfect copacetic partnership of two like minded individuals with no whiny little brother to deal with.

He tells himself that he has no way of tracking them down, even if he would be allowed back into the fold after what he has done. That neither Dad nor Dean would be inclined to answer a phone call from a selfish pain in the ass that has done nothing but hurt them.

He tells himself that, while Bobby may have allowed Sam to seek shelter in his cabin this month, the salvage man probably has no warm feelings towards an ungrateful child that abandons his family when they are at their lowest. Sam could go to Sioux Falls, but he would be sleeping on the streets there, and no closer to finding his father and brother when Bobby refuses to help him.

The second time he finds himself walking back to the cabin, he finally accepts that this really is it. It's the point of no return between him and his family.

He waves to the slightly weird but friendly enough man that lives nearby, wondering if it was just his hopeful imagination these past weeks that made him think that his father had arranged for Sam to be watched over. When really it was probably just another lost soul living in a cabin by the river the whole time.

Sam doesn't know what's worse anymore.

Knowing that betraying and abandoning Dean was quite possibly the cruelest thing he could ever have done to his brother, or the guilt in knowing that, although he would have changed the circumstances of his departure for school, Sam wouldn't have chosen his destination any differently.

Sitting on the riverbank, Sam accepts that the next bus he will be on will be heading for California and nowhere else, and he wonders what kind of person that makes him.

/

Dean's casts are off and he's able to get around now, in a slow but steadily getting stronger manner. No longer requiring his father's help to bathe or dress. He's even taken back over some of the cooking duties, and John feels a small pang of loss over being not being needed by his child once again.

He's still not talking, but he is starting to at least step away from the damn window now for a couple of hours a day and will even occasionally go out and walk down to the end of the block and back. John is going to take it as a good first step and wonders if it's time to start hinting that they should be getting ready to head back out on the road.

The decision is made for him at the tail end of August when the landlady stops by to talk to them. She's confused by a check she received the other day in the mail from Dean. Rent for the next three months for the house, although she was sure that John told her that they weren't planning on staying past September. She's not upset, she assures them. The Winchesters have been model tenants and she wasn't looking forward to seeing them go, but she was confused nonetheless.

John is stunned into silence and he turns to his firstborn, not missing the fact that Dean is standing straight and tall for the first time since before his accident. He gives his son a questioning stare and is rewarded with a voice that, although raspy from lack of use, is strong and steady.

He's missed his son's voice.

"I'm keeping the house, Dad," Dean states with an air of finality. "I'm ready hit the road again. _More_ than ready. But my brother _is_ going to come back someday. And when he does, he needs a home to come back to."

For the first time, John knows that there is no changing Dean's mind. What's more, he realizes that he agrees with his son.

/


	17. September 2001

A/N This chapter was very hard to write. It may be even harder to read for some. It contains real details about a real national tragedy. If this is something that might be hard for you to read in depth, or upset you too much to remember, you may want to seriously consider giving it a pass. Or at least stop around the halfway point.

/

/

/

 _I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up_. ~ Dean Winchester - Devil's Trap 1x22

/

 _Pittsburgh, PA- December 1987_

Snow had been falling fairly steadily throughout the day, so when John finally clocked out and got in the Impala, he needed to drive a little more slowly than he would have liked through the ice and slush covered streets. The Impala's windshield was streaked with smeared, frosty gashes that the worn down wipers couldn't fully clean, and he wasn't about to waste his limited funds on a new set at the moment.

His body was pushing its limits of endurance between the endless hours of hunting mixed in with the ones punching a time card for the first time in a couple of years. It wasn't easy to run from legitimate job to hunting job day after day, especially when the weather had been foul like it usually was in Western Pennsylvania in the winter. The perpetual cold and damp making every joint in his body ache.

Between Christmas coming up sooner than he was financially ready for, and the _friendly_ and not-so-subtle suggestion by Jim that the boys needed some stability once in a while, John had made the decision to put down roots for a few months in the relative anonymity of the Steel City. Normally, he eschewed larger urban areas, but Pittsburgh had a mixture of just enough convenience and small neighborhoods to be attractive temporarily.

The rent for the third floor apartment of a three family row house in one of the sketchier neighborhoods was pretty much all John could afford with his starting pay at the struggling steel mill, but it was furnished, and the downstairs neighbor lady was a semi-reliable, although fairly lazy babysitter for the boys while John was out.

A lonely, chain-smoking divorcee in her mid-forties, John suspected that her willingness to watch his kids stemmed more from her slightly desperate and lonely interest in him personally, rather than the couple of bucks he threw her way every day when he got home.

Still, she always seemed to be around and willing to help out, fortunately for him.

She wasn't exactly the maternal type, what with her preponderance of desperately slutty clothes that didn't suit a slowly widening middle aged figure, and a continuously lit cigarette dangling out of her mouth that she swore was kept away from his sons' tiny lungs. But it was an adult presence in the apartment in case of emergency, and John didn't have the luxury of being terribly picky.

John knew better than anyone that people could be just as, if not more than evil than some of the things he hunted. Before he left his kids in her care, he covertly did the standards tests that cleared her of any supernatural afflictions or tendencies. He also knew that Dean was solicitous enough about his little brother's happiness and safety that he would have immediately told John if she treated them badly in his absence.

So far the only grumbled complaints his firstborn had voiced regarding Ms. Chancey was that all she really cared about was Dynasty and bedtimes.

If a fondness for crap television and a desire to get his kids to go to sleep on time for a change were the only things John had to worry about while he was out on the hunt, he was counting himself lucky.

He worked a long day shift at the mill six days a week, and was usually either researching or out on the hunt once the boys had been fed dinner. With them getting a little older, it was becoming easier in his mind to leave them in the care of another for short periods of time, and if he had to do a little gratuitous flirting with a women he had zero interest in to ensure their safety and protection in his absence, well….he'd done worse things in life.

Trudging up the stairs today took more energy out of him than it normally would, and John half suspected that he was coming down with the flu that Dean was already recuperating from and that Sammy was still deep in the throes of. A trip to the walk-in clinic down the road a few days ago had resulted in some budget tightening antibiotics for both boys, and John already knew that he wouldn't be wasting any cash for more on himself.

He would maybe consider taking tonight off and rest to give his body a chance to heal on its own as a compromise.

The apartment was fairly quiet when he unlocked the door and strode in. The ancient steam radiators pumping out enough heat to make it cozy, which was a nice change from some of the places he had needed to park his kids. A lot of borderline slumlords were almost unfailingly stingy when it came to the quality of the utilities they provided, and John was especially grateful that he didn't need to worry about warmth with two sick kids at home this time around.

Although, he suspected that it was more because this particular landlord lived on the first floor himself, and there was no way to separate the heating system between units, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As was usual these days, Dean was laying on his stomach in front of the television. A bad habit he was immediately falling into after the bus dropped him off after school. Day after day, John would return home to find his eldest deeply engrossed in late afternoon programming.

As quick as he could, Dean turned his head just long enough to give his dad a rushed perfunctory hello and then was right back to being glued to the screen. More than once, John had given the boy a stern lecture on the dangers of distractions for that level of dismissal, but he just didn't have it in him today.

Especially with an audience.

On the sofa, Sammy was bundled under a blanket, his chubby little four year old face still flushed with a slight fever. He gave his father a pathetically sad pleading stare with glazed hazel eyes that screamed out for comfort and John immediately scooped him up, blanket at all, and plopped down in the recently vacated spot with his youngest cuddled in his lap. John could feel the heat radiating from his little boy's skin as Sammy burrowed into his chest, clearly glad to see his father.

That was when John made up his mind to definitely stay home.

"Poor thing," Rita Chancey clucked, overly sincere as she pursed her poorly made up lips in Sammy's direction. "It's always hard to see a little one suffer."

John mentally rolled his eyes over her false concern. He had enough skill reading people to detect her bullshit a mile away, and the way she shifted in the easy chair next to the couch to draw attention to her underwhelming cleavage was almost laughable in its attempt to be flirtatious. He restrained, because he still needed her good graces for as long as they stayed around, so he gave her his most charming smile instead.

"I appreciate all the attention you've been giving him, Rita."

The playful lilt in his voice struck just the right chord with her and she beamed a worn, slightly grotesque smile at him. John was apparently wrong about just how much attention Dean was paying them since he heard his firstborn snort quietly while never glancing away from the TV.

Suddenly John was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to feed his boys and get them all settled in for the evening. Rita had been overtly hinting for an evening of company between the two of them for days now, so he knew it was going to be tricky getting rid of her, but even the exertion of faux romantic banter was too much to endure at the moment.

"I think the boys have shared their flu with me," he said, with a heavy amount of carefully constructed regret in his voice. "I'll be staying in tonight with them, and heading to bed early."

He could see on her face that she wanted to object. To offer assistance and a further push for friendship with benefits _after_ bedtime. Crafting a reasonable case for her continuing presence in their apartment in an effort to solidify a place in his affections, but she must have seen something in John's eyes tonight that convinced her to make a graceful retreat.

Reluctantly she stood up and plastered a forced smile on her face as she straightened out the wrinkles in her skirt that was simply too short. Mary would have had a few choice words to say about that.

"If you need _anything_ ," Rita simpered, eyelashes fluttering. "Anything _at all_. You know where I'll be, John."

John smiled wider, his teeth almost predatory in their sharpness. Pushing every bit of charm he could into his expression, even though he wanted her gone.

Like... _yesterday_.

"Thanks, Rita. You're a sweetheart. Boys _,_ _s_ ay thank you to Ms. Chancey for being kind enough to watch you today."

Obediently, Dean turned around long enough to say the words prompted by his father, with just a little too much insincerity that would normally have gotten him reprimanded if John wasn't so physically and mentally wiped out. Sammy snaked a tiny arm out from underneath the blanket just long enough to give her a shy wave before he curled it around his father's neck, shifting just enough to bury his face in John's shoulder.

As Rita reluctantly closed the door behind her, John frowned when he felt the blistering warmth of his son's forehead against his own skin, made only more concerning when Sammy slipped a surreptitious thumb in his mouth. Sammy had been weaned off his thumb for well over a year, only falling back into babyish behavior when he truly felt awful. Looking over at the starburst clock on the wall, John realized that it was almost time for the boys' next dose of antibiotics.

"Dean, what time did you two have lunch today?"

Still looking at the screen in rapt attention, Dean's answer is hurried and too distracted for his father's tastes. John preferred to have his sons' full attention when he addressed them, because it was never too early for them to learn that mistakes can be made in the blink of an eye when you disregarded your surroundings and your orders in a combat situation.

"Ms. Chancey made sandwiches at noon, but Sammy didn't eat his."

Sighing, John brushed damp bangs from Sammy's forehead. In his arms, his youngest was like a tiny furnace pumping out a million BTUs of paternal panic inducing worry. The fever he had been battling over the last couple of days clearly creeping back up. Sammy could be fussy at mealtimes, but he never outright refused to eat what was put in front of him.

John wouldn't stand for his boys to skip meals. Not just because of their own sometimes precarious situation, but because it was how he was raised himself.

Sam was going to need something lining his stomach before he took his medication, especially if he hadn't eaten anything since the oatmeal his father had coaxed into him that morning. On a different day, John would already be pulling out pots and pans to rustle up some dinner for his kids, but today he wasn't doing too well himself and he was even more unwilling to let go of his sick kid when Sammy was being so clingy.

As usual, money was tight, especially since John couldn't afford to use his fake cards anywhere in the area where his face was known and his oldest had to go to school. He had also been steadily paying off the Christmas gifts he had put on layaway for the boys, but he was just about caught up with that, so he wasn't completely broke at the moment.

Payday was only two days away, and with the extra hours he had managed to put in over the weekend, it should be a fairly good check. Tired, hungry and worn out, he decided on splurging for take out instead.

"What do you think kiddo?," he said softy, his head tilted against his son's sweaty brow. "Will you eat some Chinese soup so Daddy can give you something to make your head feel better?"

He felt an almost imperceptible nod against his shoulder as Sammy gripped his shirt collar a little tighter. Poor little guy looked as rough as John felt, and his heart ached in sympathy for his son's misery. From the television John heard the distantly familiar chimes of a firehouse alarm, and with the way his kid was staring himself bug-eyed at the screen, the action must have been about to start.

It took John a minute to recognize the show Dean was watching, and he felt a small smirk of amusement pass over his lips. With the cast of decidedly too pretty fireman and the cheesy dialogue, he remembered having watched _Emergency!_ more than once with Mary a decade ago. She would laugh and tease him and profess overly exaggerated affinity for men in uniform.

Ah, the wonders of syndicated television.

"Dean, grab the take out menu for Plum Garden, will ya?"

"Aw Dad, can it wait a minute? The commercial will be on soon."

It was on the tip of John's tongue to scold his son for his disobedience, because Dean knew better than to not do what he was told as soon as he was told, but he refrained. His firstborn never asked for much consideration for himself, even as a young boy of only eight. Always ready, willing and able to help care for his little brother.

Sometimes John had to remind himself of the unfair expectations he laid on his oldest child.

Right now Sammy was quiet and almost half asleep in John's arms, and John wasn't so sure he could make himself eat at the moment either. They clearly had some time to spare. For once, Dean could exert a little rebellion and watch his show until the break just as long as he didn't make a habit of it.

Twenty minutes later found them all lumped on the couch together. Dean had dashed into the kitchen during a commercial for _Doublemint_ gum that was entirely too colorful and perky for John to appreciate in his current state of mind, and the exceptionally quick Chinese place down the street had already come and delivered their dinner. John was pretty sure that they must have a psychic working for them, since they never seemed to wait longer than ten minutes for a food delivery.

Sammy was now propped up against his father's shoulder. His small frame drooping with feverish lethargy as John slowly spooned scoops of wonton soup in his tiny rosebud mouth, but at least he was eating. Next to them, Dean was putting away large forkfuls of lo mein like it was a competitive sport, his eyes still glued to the show.

Not usually interested in the humdrum world of low budget televised entertainment, John allowed himself to be drawn in. A wave of nostalgia washing over him as he remembered better times with his beautiful wife, when the two of them would cuddle on the couch and forget the rest of the world for a while. He's even fairly sure that he had already watched this particular episode once or twice, and then proved it to himself by predicting the end.

Although that could just be his sharpened investigative skills at play.

Sammy is a human thermal reactor pressed against his chest, John's skin sweating from his son's elevated body heat, the extra blanket and what is unmistakably the increase in the tired father's own core temperature. Without being asked, Dean retrieved the glass thermometer from the cup on the sink in the bathroom where John has been leaving it for quick access and sanitizing. His youngest's temperature is slightly lower now that he has been dosed with the prescription meds and a Children's Tylenol broken in half.

Thankfully, Dean seems almost completely over the bug that is wreaking havoc over his other family members. Then again, John's firstborn is rarely kept down by anything for long, as if his will is strong enough to keep him on his toes and ready for whatever may come at him.

An admirable trait in an adult man, but one that darkens John's bleary eyes with worry and shame when he ponders the reality that he has played some part in that himself.

Together, they watch the end credits in silence. It's still very early, but John is prepared to pull rank right now and shuffle his kids off to bed. Somehow it always seems easier to get compliance in the wintertime, when the sky is dark early and the thought of a soft warm bed makes resistance to sleep less likely. Sammy is already half gone anyways, and as much as Dean would like to make the world believe that he is indestructible, he's still battling the last vestiges of flu as well.

They all know that both brothers will rest a little easier if they are bundled into their shared bed together. Neither one of them has ever really done well without the other right by his side.

"Bedtime, boys," John announces wearily, carefully lifting Sam up in his arms as he pushes himself to his feet.

He can tell that Dean wants to protest and posture, but one look at Sammy's flushed pink face has the older brother resigned and complacent. Ever helpful, the eight year old cleans up the remains of dinner while John helps his youngest in the bathroom. Making sure that Sammy uses the toilet, because he's still young enough to have the occasional accident when he's not feeling well, and John has been pushing fluids since he arrived home from work.

To spare himself an unnecessary fight, he skips getting Sammy's teeth brushed when the little boy tries to climb back up into his arms, and settles for getting him dressed in clean and dry pajamas instead. The ones he had been wearing all day are damp with sweat and covered in splotches of spilled soup, and John drops them into the makeshift hamper in the corner of the boys' room, making a mental note that laundry needs to be done soon.

Taught by his father to be quick in his movements, Dean washes up for bed and gets into his own pjs, and he's already under the blankets waiting by the time John has Sammy re-dressed. John tucks his already slumbering youngest under the covers next to his brother and presses a kiss to Sam's warm forehead.

Dean's old enough to have started to protest against a good night kiss from his father, but tonight John catches the quick wistful spark in his firstborn's eyes. He's not going to push affection on Dean, but he does go around to the other side of the bed to sit next to his eldest son for a moment.

"You really liked that show, didn't you kiddo."

Dean's vibrant green eyes light up and a huge grin spreads out over his freckled face, so pure and innocent that John has a quick stab of a reminder of just how young the boy really is. His oldest is a complex mixture of son, hunting partner and best friend on occasion, even at this tender age, and it takes a second for his father to see him as the small boy he actually is sometimes.

"I'm going to be a fireman someday, Dad!"

John chuckles as he presses a warm affectionate hand to Dean's hip over the blanket and gives him a quick pat. With all of the scary baggage John brings home routinely, he's suddenly inordinately pleased that his firstborn still has the typical childish ambitions of any other eight year old.

How many times did John and his own friends at that age express a desire to be something similar in the future?

 _I wanna be a policeman._

 _I wanna be a doctor._

 _I wanna be a fireman._

One whole minute goes by while John reassures himself that he might not have screwed up his kid for life after all.

"You are, huh?" John asks, smiling widely under his beard. "What makes you say that?"

Dean's grin grows wider, if that's even possible. He's so excited that John fears for half a second that the unconscious bouncing that Dean's now doing will be enough to rouse Sammy from his feverish sleep.

"Because they're _cool_ , Dad," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And they save people all the time. They're _heroes._ "

John has to chuckle softly at that, because he can't debate it.

It's true.

Of course, what he does saves people too, and there is half a heartbeat where he feels slightly hurt by the idea that maybe his son doesn't see what his dad does the same way John sees himself. Then, like usual, his bright and sensitive boy surprises him once again.

"I mean, you save people _too_ , Dad," Dean whispers conspiratorially, since Sammy is still out of the loop.

And John smiles and nods his head, ashamed of his first knee jerk reaction, because it's his own insecurity that has him worried that his children will never understand his motivations for essentially robbing them of a stable home during these formative years.

"But," and Dean continues, a little unsure now as his face puckers into a frown and he shoots sad eyes at John, desperately pleading for his father's understanding, "I want to save them from _fires_."

The underlining meaning there hits John like a Mack truck, sucking all the air from his lungs as he fully comprehends just exactly how dedicated and mature his eight year old is after all. It's not the first or the last time he worries about exactly how much of Mary's death Dean oversaw and still remembers.

That night, John puts aside his determination to stop babying his firstborn for a moment, and he gathers Dean up in his arms and holds him close for a while before tucking him in with a kiss.

Promising himself that he won't let either of them forget his son's childhood dreams.

/

 **Stage Two: Anger**

/

Every step ached.

Not that it wasn't to be expected. Not after the extent of his injuries. Without being told, Dean knew that the ache he felt now would only become more pronounced as the weather turned colder.

Something about how a broken bone that never truly mended all the way reminded you to be more careful in the future.

After what seemed like an incredibly horrible nightmare, he was finally feeling free of all of the constriction of the past weeks, but sadly was still almost invalid in physical strength in his mind. The casts that kept him immobilized in practically straitjacket confinement left behind a phantom suppressing sensation that he couldn't seem to shake. The lack of the regular vigorous physical exertions he was used to engaging in resulting in low stamina and short breaths.

His body was weak now. Almost two full months of being, more or less, off his feet and pampering his fractured limbs back to life.

A Winchester didn't baby his body.

Couldn't afford to.

Their lives were too jacked up to allow indulgence and complacency, and their job was too strenuous and unfortunately _too necessary_ to ignore. Because of those very real factors, their bodies were every bit as important to the successful completion of a hunt as the weapons they carried.

You can't be soft and weak when you are in a constant run for your own life.

He wasn't yet up for running in the morning. Not like he had every day before with…

 _N_ _o...don't go there._

When it came to certain aspects of his life, Dean was every bit a creature of habit. As much as he wanted to get back into a routine, his recently broken leg wasn't going to hold up under the stress of pounding the pavement in a conditioning run at the moment.

Nothing really felt good or familiar right now, and it irritated him to be less than his usual strong self, like a foreign itch under his skin that he couldn't scratch at.

Grudgingly, he knew that he needed to heed his father's strict orders to avoid putting unnecessary pressure on his vulnerable limb until it had more time to fully heal. Until then, he would have to make do with a daily brisk low impact walk around the neighborhood.

Like some sort of candy ass crybaby that couldn't handle a little pain, and the more he thought about that comparison, the more he realized that he hadn't really done anything to disabuse his father of that notion in the past month. What with the way he had wallowed like a teenage girl getting dumped the day before prom and was coping by holing up in her room and mainlining the giant _Whitman's Sampler_ box.

Ignoring the increasing pain, with his jaw set firmly in a molar crushing clench, he powered his way down the uneven sidewalk, taking care to avoid the stray tree roots spilling up from the ground that threatened to dislodge the large stone slabs. In the air he could smell the heralding scents of a brisk fall in the near future. The slightly earthy tang of decaying greenery riding the wind and kicking up mental images of leaf piles and snatches of Indian Summer afternoons.

Already the leaves were losing a little of their vibrant tint. It would still be awhile before a full foliage was in bloom, but you could almost sense a change taking place. The days were growing a little shorter. The breeze a little cooler and fresher. It was wet and slippery today from a brief shower earlier, scattering fallen leaves plastered into the stones, and the dampness in the air wasn't helping the dull throbbing of either his leg or shoulder.

Dean had missed the entirety of the summer while he was holed up inside the hospital and then the house, and he was now finding himself neck deep in early autumn, feeling more than a little disoriented by lack of focus over the passage of time.

Missing his usual warm weather pursuits of driving flat out with the windows rolled all the way down while Led Zeppelin thundered from his car speakers. Finding swimming holes in the small towns they made their own for a week or two here and there. Where the local girls invariably competed to see who could wear the tiniest bikini, and every local guy got taken down a peg when they realized that Dean could have his pick of their girlfriends.

Watching two-for-one double features at the ubiquitous old school drive-ins, and stuffing Sammy with junk food from the concession stand and the contraband beer that Dean would pile in the green cooler and hide under blankets in the back seat. Sammy grinning at the carefree easiness of it all, without the pinched frown that routinely painted his young face.

 _Fuck_

 _Stop thinking, Dean._

Early September had always meant getting prepared for the new school year.

Finding a school somewhere close enough to Dad's next job that he could come home to them at night, but not so close they were in any danger of getting hurt. Getting registered and classes situated by using his not insubstantial charm to wheedle his way through spotty records and missed deadlines with love struck office clerks that had no business flirting with a kid half their age, but did anyway.

Using the funds Dean had spent the summer squirreling away to augment the wad of cash that Dad would hand him to buy new-to-them clothes and notebooks and pens and whatever else was on the supply list that was pushed at him with their schedules.

Back to school for less prosperous families meant that you needed to hit Goodwill and Salvation Army early if you wanted to get shirts and pants that didn't actually look like they came from thrift shops. Making sure that you didn't pick out anything too ostentatious, because styles for teenagers changed fast, or too easily recognizable because kids from small towns could be cruel if they saw the new boy wearing what was clearly their cast offs from last year.

Dean preferred basic for his own wardrobe, but his annoyingly particular little brother started yearning for quality early on.

Sometimes Dean had allowed trendier and upmarket used items to be purchased, if they were still in good shape, with the clear understanding that they didn't get worn until the next town.

The next _school_.

A place where the Winchesters wouldn't be looked down on or made fun of for wearing a shirt they never could have afforded when it was new and had routinely been seen the previous year being worn by the rich asshole that got his kicks from picking on the less popular students.

It seemed foreign to Dean to not be worried about those details right now. For the first time since he was a young boy himself, there was no first day of school concerns to address and focus on.

No one _needing_ him to…

Suddenly, he was feeling rudderless.

Alone and adrift on an ocean of uselessness and loneliness.

Dad was finally gone.

A thought that would have given Dean significant pause just a scant couple of weeks ago when he sat in stony silence with his world spinning out of control around him. Blocking out all thought and sensation except for the necessary tasks of a rudimentary simple existence.

Now it just seemed like a chance for Dean to fully exhale the breath he had been holding, painful and tight in his chest for close for a month.

Not that he didn't appreciate his father's efforts to care for him, because he _did_.

As helpless as an infant while he was wrapped up like a broken mummy, Dean didn't know what he would have done if he had been hurt and Dad was too far away, or too busy, or too _something,_ to help Dean with everything from getting dressed to taking a piss.

Dad never gave him one word of reproach over his injuries. Not a single comment or harsh look to convey his displeasure over the necessity of having to babysit Dean during a long month of convalescence. Even though Dean knew that his father must have felt that his firstborn's carelessness and weakness was keeping him from a much higher calling for his time.

On a subconscious level, Dean knew that it wasn't strictly his fault that he had been hurt, but the larger part of him, the part that always endlessly shouldered the weight of the welfare and happiness of his family, still felt a strip of pride taken from him for his lack of attention and professionalism on the job.

Regardless of his father's non-existent chastisement for it.

And really, it was the silence that was the most disconcerting. Dad was never one to hide his anger and frustration.

Although, if there was anything that truly surprised him about the whole situation surrounding his accident, recovery and overall drama, it was that his father stuck around long enough in the first place.

Outwardly, Dean has always given John the benefit of the doubt. For his own sake, as well as the other people in their lives who have not always been kind when it came to their opinions on how the Winchester brothers were being raised. Dean could usually do a pretty decent job of at least convincing himself that his father acted in what he believed to be his family's best interests.

Of course, nothing in these past few weeks made any sense, so it probably should not have shocked Dean as much as it did. The idea that somehow his father had chosen to put Dean's needs above all others, when history had taught him that he should have been expected to man up and deal with the hits of life as they came at him.

 _Play through the pain because life doesn't stop for anyone, Boy_.

If he had been pressed to name a potential caretaker before his accident in July, he would have chosen... _Sam_...to be the one who would stick by him, without hesitation.

Which, apparently, just goes to show you how much Dean actually knows about his family after all. Making him wonder if all the good points of John Winchester that Dean had always taken such pains to detail to others were actually the real deal, and not just the fervent defensive fallback position of a loyal and dedicated son.

With Sam's abandonment of the Winchester ship, having Dean's faith so well and truly shaken by one of the things he had always considered a constant unnerved him in a way that no ghost or other supernatural unknown quantity ever had.

Suddenly, everything he ever thought he knew was now subject to reevaluation.

What was black was now white. What was wrong was now right.

And the little brother that Dean had always thought he could count on had fucked off to the land of milk and honey, thousands of miles away and not giving a single rat's ass about the gaping hole he had punched through Dean's chest without remorse or hesitation.

His mind distracted and troubled, Dean wasn't necessarily strolling around his neighborhood, but he wasn't rushing himself either.

Besides the dull pain in his leg and shoulder as he moved around, was the general overall winded nature of his breathing that was a kick in the crotch reminder of how fragile his physical state truly was. It was remarkable, really, just how out of shape you could get while spending time on your ass, doing nothing but questioning the direction of your life.

After a month of waiting for him to come home, Dean was simply _done_ with his little brother.

There was only so much hope you could hold out for. Only so much benefit of the doubt you could realistically afford to give someone. Dean had stubbornly clung on to the increasingly desperate notion that he couldn't have misjudged his little brother so badly.

To accept that Sam had always been planning on leaving was a sharp stab of pain enforcing just how wrong Dean had been about their relationship.

Eventually, we all need to come to the conclusion that sometimes the people in our lives that we thought had our back, simply _didn't_.

It had been so ridiculously easy for Sam to walk out that door. He hadn't even needed to take a night to think about it. After Dad had gone storming out, Dean's little brother had gone upstairs and gathered his things and returned to the living room so quickly that he could have already been packed for all Dean knew.

Questions whirled around in Dean's mind like a tsunami.

 _How long had Sam been keeping that secret from him?_

 _Before Dean's accident?_

 _Before graduation?_

 _Before his big fight with Dad?_

 _Since his trip there in February?_

 _Since last summer when he asked about living with Jim Murphy?_

 _How long had he been playing Dean for a fool?_

 _How many times had he flat out_ lied _to Dean about his plans and intentions for the future?_

It was that last question that hurt most of all. That Dean simply had no idea of how little Sam had valued their brotherhood. That his little brother had been playing the long game behind Dean's back the entire time. All the while, Dean had been acting the fool, faithfully working and planning to make a life for them all, here in this little quiet neighborhood.

Away from all the darkness that usually plagued them.

If that wasn't enough to make Dean feel like a prized sucker, he didn't know what was.

Once Dean was back on his feet and able to take care of all his needs on his own again, Dad had come straight out and told him that he needed to be gone for a little while. That there was something he needed to do, and did Dean want to come with him?

They didn't mention it in so many words, but Dean knew where John was heading. Sam might have callously left his family in his rear view, but that didn't mean that Dad had forgotten that he had two sons to be looked after.

Dean knew that his father would strike out for California, and do whatever he felt he could to at least satisfy his own mind that his youngest was as safe as it was in John's powers to make him.

Once upon a time, Dean would have been leading that charge under other circumstances. Riding hell bent for leather to make sure that his kid brother was okay and cared for.

Now Dean simply didn't have it in him.

It's not that he had stopped loving his brother. _That_ was never going to happen, no matter how much Sam tore his heart into hamburger.

Dean just couldn't take any more rejection from the kid at the moment. He wasn't going to be the pathetic person that forced himself into Sam's new life, when it was glaringly obvious to anyone that his little brother wanted nothing more to do with his family.

Dad could go ahead and storm in, charging like a bull and pushing his will on everyone around him, like usual, but that wasn't the kind of person Dean was. As far as he was concerned, after Sam grew up a little and realized the mistakes he made, he was welcome back in Sioux Falls, but the kid was going to have to make the first move.

Mr. Peterson, their octogenarian neighbor from three houses down, was running a push mower over his postage stamp sized yard as Dean walked by. Stubbornly giving his lawn one of the last mows of the season and filling the air in the immediate space with the pungent herbal scent of fresh cut grass.

Dean had learned to love that aroma during their time in Sioux Falls. It smelled of calm and lazy days and _home_.

Although they had never really spoken to each other, each man waved to the other, in the way that neighbors do in sweet little residential areas like this one. Where children grew up playing together, and everyone came to group barbecues like the one that Dean had missed for Labor Day weekend last Sunday, even though an invitation had appeared in his mailbox.

Still feeling too raw to interact with the relative strangers who had needed almost an entire year to warm up to the concept of quiet, low key brothers that never caused a fuss.

He didn't stop now to idly chat either. Not that he ever did, and nor was it expected.

The people that lived in the houses around them had always been distantly polite to the Winchesters. The way folks are about the unknown quantities near their homes, keeping an eye out for any signs of brewing trouble that would interfere with their Stepford happy lives. But since the brothers had never given anyone reason to be uncomfortable by their presence, eventually cautious stares had turned to civil smiles and casual waves. Then to vocal greetings and community invitations.

It was all so _respectable_.

Sam had always struggled for normalcy, so Dean had worked to provide it. But, in the end, it simply hadn't been enough apparently for the fickle little brother who pioneered the concept of always wanting _more_.

The empty bedroom down the hall from Dean's being proof of that.

Feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, like there were dozens of eyes peeking out from the tastefully hung drapes in every pretty little house surrounding him, Dean quickened his pace to hurry his return back to his own home. Not wanting to enmesh himself in any more potential social interactions at the moment. It only taking five more minutes of long strides to have him safely in the comfort zone of their driveway.

The Impala sitting steady and proud in her normal space. Sleek, shiny and reassuring. Patiently waiting for Dean to finally climb back behind the wheel and take her out where she belonged.

Where _he_ belonged.

The open road.

On the hunt.

Where Dean's talents and care could truly make a difference, instead of in this house, mocking him with its emptiness, where he had been fooling himself for almost a year.

Next to her sat Dad's pickup. A few tons of Detroit steel, reassuring him that his father would be back after his trip west. At least, that's what Dean suspected when Dad told him that he was borrowing one of Bobby's road ready beaters for the long drive out.

If the Sierra, with its hidden and formidable arsenal, was left behind in Sioux Falls, it was a sure sign that John would be back for it. Convincing a shaken and insecure son that he wasn't being abandoned by his father as well as his brother.

It might have helped. Dean didn't think too much about the inference these days. The glaring absence of the Camaro being more of what he subconsciously concentrated on as he loped up to the porch.

Bobby had been by a week ago to tow Cherry back to the salvage yard.

At Dean's request.

Soon Dean would be gone. Likely for weeks at a time, and he didn't want anyone getting the opportunity to mess with her in his absence. She would be safer at Bobby's until Sam came back home to reclaim ownership of her.

Dean wasn't going to pretend that it hadn't just about finished the job of killing him off when his little brother handed the keys over without a word. To act like this labor of love from his big brother meant _less than_ _nothing_ to him. Just another piece rent from Dean's soul that had been freely given and blithely thrown back in his face.

Because he wanted to give his little brother the benefit of the doubt, Dean was going to chose to believe that Sam had a less hurtful reason to discard a gift that Dean had taken such care to provide. That it hadn't been just another cold rebuff of everything their lives together had stood for and was no longer wanted.

It was probably naive to see it that way, but when you are already holding onto the ledge of sanity by your rapidly slipping fingertips, you made excuses and false promises to yourself to ensure that you didn't fall completely off and tumble helplessly into the abyss.

The house was empty and quiet when he returned. Of course it was, since there was no one there anymore to make a sound. Not that Sam had ever been a loud kid just by himself. Nose usually more likely stuck in a book, and even when he had music playing, it would be filtered through the headphones of Dean's ancient Walkman.

Still, just having the overall _presence_ of another person gave the house life, as well as the subliminal feeling that conversation _could_ be had if it was sought out. With Dad gone now, and Dean being the only one in residence at the moment, the emptiness was palpable. So when he made his way inside, more out of need to cut through the silence than interest, he clicked on the television, chose a channel at random and turned the volume up.

 _High_.

The stiffness in his shoulder was beginning to make an unwelcome return, so he dry swallowed two ibuprofen tablets. He had big bottles of the good stuff of course, but they made him feel like his brain was nothing more than a clump of cotton most of the time. Increasingly needing his head to start clearing, they had already found their way into the first aid kit in the Impala days ago.

Lord knew that they would come in handy after whatever really nasty hunt he had coming up in his future, _and he knew there would eventually be one,_ that would require the edge to be taken off by prescription meds.

He had spent a couple of days tinkering for Bobby at the salvage yard, doing small jobs over the last week. After his accident, the routine repair work had tapered off when people learned that he was out of commission for a while, although there were still more than a few willing to wait for him to have a block of time available. There were three cars that were perfect candidates for his next rebuilds, but at the moment he didn't have the physical upper body strength to do some of the tasks required.

Although another month or so of reconditioning would have him golden, and he was looking forward to using his hands to salvage beauty again after so much destruction in his life.

Dad hadn't called in yet today, so Dean still had no instructions or directions to occupy his mind and body in the way that they would routinely default. Without another purpose to fulfill him at the moment, his inner hunter was getting increasingly restless during his wait for his father to give him orders for the next job. Even though he knew that John was less than convinced that his firstborn was entirely ready to be back out in the field.

The two of them had engaged in a rather heated debate about that very topic just before Dad took off for California. Dean was convinced that his father was just being overly protective, and he knew that if he didn't get out of this house in the very near future, his overall mental health would be at risk.

Once Dean had made his objections to joining his father on his trip out to Sam's new home, he stated his intention to pack up and head back out on the road on his own. It was a bold statement to make, because even full bodied and healthy Dean had never been allowed to hunt alone. Not at all unsurprisingly, Dad had not taken that idea well. Going so far as to order Dean to stay put until he returned, and fully expecting his order to be obeyed without question.

At twenty-two, Dean should have taken more umbrage with the mandate than he did. But he knew, just as surely as John did, that he wouldn't take on a job without his father's consent and input. Too many years of trained obedience and hardwired adherence to his father's judgment were hard to swallow back when a large part of Dean's makeup was already in shambles.

Considering everything he had just been through, Dean already knew that Dad wasn't going to allow his firstborn to be very far from his side in the immediate future. Once upon a time, that idea might have been met with a rolling of the eyes and a smirk over the unnecessary over-protectiveness of his father.

Now it just made Dean feel like a fragile, broken baby bird, and that wasn't an image of himself that he wanted _anyone_ to have.

He had spent his entire life working and fighting and punching. Pushing and shoving and stomping and killing.

He was a _warrior_ , _G_ _oddamn it!_ Not a damsel in distress, and _Fuck Dad_ for treating him like one.

Fuck _Sam_ too.

For not doing his job and almost getting himself killed.

For not being able to shut his mouth for once and stop fighting with their father.

For being the one to force Dean's guard down and making him into something to be pitied and laughed at.

For walking away and treating their brotherhood like it was _nothing_.

 _Fuck you, Sam. You selfish and inconsiderate little asshole._

 _Happy to take, take, take and then take some more, without even caring who you hurt in the process._

Just _. Fuck. You._

Standing in the middle of his very empty house, looking into the mirror hanging next to the staircase and seeing a virtual stranger staring back at him, Dean felt the walls start to close in and his breath come in desperate choking gasps as the panic attack set in. Knowing as surely as he knew his own name in that moment that if he didn't get out, he was going to suffocate.

He just simply couldn't be there one moment longer, in a place that used to be filled with happiness and laughter and love and now just mocked him with its crushing silence and still air.

Forcing himself to regulate his erratic breathing, mind made up, he climbed the stairs as fast as his aching leg would let him. He ignored the closed door of Sam's bedroom, the one he hadn't opened since the day his little brother _walked away_ , and headed into his own pristine room. Pulling his go bag from the closet, he grabbed his large duffel as well and started loading it with additional clothes.

With a slight air of disgust, he shucked his too loose and too comfortable civilian clothes. Tossing them in his hamper, when really they were destined for the trash heap on his return at some point in the distant future. Fabric reminders of a time when he wasn't able to keep his collective shit together long enough to stand on his own two feet.

He donned a tight black tee that stretched across bulging chest muscles not yet adversely affected by his recent injury. Throwing a dark gray flannel over it before he pulled on his favorite, soft faded jeans and feeling the familiarity drape over him like a warm blanket.

The ones with organic rips in the knees from too much use and too little money to replace them, as opposed to the strategically distressed kind that privileged little snots paid ridiculous money to pretend they were bad asses instead of the pampered pussies they were.

The kind that _Sam_ would probably buy someday, after too many years of soft college living and obstinately forgetting exactly where he came from.

A quick stop in the bathroom had him rubbing a disgruntled hand over the weeks of growth on his face. Too preoccupied and lethargic to be bothered shaving it off while he wallowed in his own misery. Against his will, Dad had dragged him off to the barber for a haircut last week. So he could have looked worse than he did at the moment, but he still looked far removed from the handsome young man he had always prided himself in being.

A sink full of soapy hot water had the mirror heavily steamed up by the time his razor was almost completely dulled by the heavy task of shaving the bristly camouflage away. There was no denying the slight gauntness of his cheeks or a faint sickly pallor to his skin. A result of his significantly decreased appetite and increased apathy. Still, he felt more like himself than he had in weeks, and the uptick in personal comfort gave renewed life to his shocking green eyes as he wiped his face clean of stray blobs of cream.

Working with ingrained efficiency, he packed his toiletry bag with all the necessities he would need for the immediate future. Having a home base over the past year had given rise to a new indulgent preference in specific personal items as opposed to making due with the generic offerings of temporary housing, resulting in a more crowded pack than he usually carried from motel to motel.

Another sign of his forced domesticity that now stood as harsh reminder that he was forgetting his roots.

Regardless, it still didn't take long to rearrange everything. Years of living on the road made packing up into a science and it was only a handful of minutes before he was heading back down the stairs.

Moving now with real purpose, he thew his bags on the couch and strode into the kitchen to tidy up in there. Having spent the last few days living on take out delivery, he tossed everything perishable from inside the fridge into the trash, closed up the bag and dragged it outside for garbage collection. Knowing that it would be a while before he would be back.

From the bookshelf in the living room, he grabbed the hollowed out book that held his emergency cash. He had a decent amount of money in his checking account. The one that was in his real name and was tied to the real bank card that he kept tucked in a separate slot of his wallet, away from his phony cards.

The Cougar rebuild he had finished before the disaster hunt had yielded an unprecedented share of almost eight thousand dollars for him. The buyer was a hard core collector with money to burn, and both he and Bobby were thrilled with the end result, but neither of them had been as pleased as Dean had been with his portion of the proceeds.

He _had_ been planning on taking Sammy on a graduation trip, anywhere the kid wanted to go, with some of the money before everything had gone to shit.

Now he was saving that money to upkeep the house for a while. Back out on the road, he could start up the scams and the hustling to make his way once again. Thinking about that had him realizing that he couldn't remember the last time he was even in a bar. Probably on their way to DC months ago, and wasn't that just a sad sorry state of affairs.

Even more sad was trying to recall the last time he had enjoyed the pleasure of a woman, and just the idea of that stirred some interest behind the tight zipper of his jeans.

There was close to two grand in emergency cash, and he grabbed half that and stuffed it in his wallet for seed money. Kicking off his running shoes, he grabbed his boots out of the hall closet and laced them up, his feet filling out the familiar curves of the leather like old friends. Just the feel of them, strong and sturdy, had him subtly relaxing.

More confident now in his own skin, he finished closing up shop in the house, the silent walls bouncing back the sounds of his heavy footfalls as he gave everything a final check before hefting his bags on his good shoulder and locking up behind him.

Pulling the Impala's keys from his pants pocket, he opened the trunk and dropped his bags on the false bottom, already feeling better about his decision. By the time he slipped into the familiar curves of the front seat, hugging him like he was born to be her driver, his hands lovingly caressing the steering wheel, he could feel that familiar spark of life beginning to sizzle its way through his veins. He turned the ignition on for the first time in two months, the rumble of her powerful engine sending vibrations through his weakened limbs and giving them strength.

Feeling more alive than he had in a long time, Dean cranked up the radio, the loud, pulsing bass line of _Smoke on the Water_ piercing the subtle peace of suburbia. He guided his baby carefully out of the driveway with smooth precision and sat for a quick moment in the middle of the street. With one last glance at his house, a mile wide smile breaking out across his beautiful face, he stomped on the gas pedal and roared away.

Finally, the fragile, broken bird had taken flight again, and he was _free_.

/

John had never missed his truck more than he had during the last few days driving cross country and back in the piece of shit 1995 Toyota Corolla that Singer had lent him. Gun metal gray and thoroughly generic, it was the perfect vehicle if he wanted to keep a low profile, which was the whole point on this particular journey.

Once he had made his peace with Sammy heading off to Stanford, John made it his business to learn all the particulars of the school and the requirements that needed to be fulfilled for his youngest's first semester there. Ash was keeping tabs on what was happening on his end, suitably impressing John more every day with his computer skills. He's even learned to tolerate the kid's snarky attitude and overall bizarre personal habits out of appreciation for all the help he was giving in keeping Sammy safe.

Initially, John was planning on heading straight to Palo Alto and seeing with his own eyes that his kid arrived safely and in one piece, hence the need for the covert transportation. It was the only one in the yard that was currently driveable _and_ was legitimately registered to Bobby's secondary business address in Nebraska instead of South Dakota.

John had some fairly unfavorable opinions about his baby boy at the moment, but no one would ever accuse Sam of being stupid. Thoroughly well trained by John himself, Sam would spot the Sierra a mile away without blinking, and even the appearance of a South Dakota license plate would give rise to suspicion at his new home in California.

All things considered, John had decided to skip the potential grand theft auto of boosting a local car in favor of driving one of Bobby's shit boxes instead.

What he hadn't counted on was the phone call from Ash telling him that Sam's meal plan hadn't been paid for yet, and asking if he wanted Ash to whammy it into reality with a few key strokes. Of course the easy answer to give would have been a quick, unequivocal _Yes_ , but that hadn't been what John answered.

With all of the laws he routinely bent and broke, and all of the hustling and scamming that he regularly engaged in, something snapped inside John as he reached down deep into himself and tapped the conscience of the good man he used to be.

The one that would have made sure that _he personally_ took care of whatever his little boy needed at college without relying on computer hacking to accomplish it.

Sam had given them the impression that he had a full ride, and John expected that to mean that it included _everything_. What was the point of a school telling a poor kid that _everything_ was taken care of, when this most basic of needs was not?

Ash did explain, _eventually,_ in a follow up call, that money actually was allocated for the expense of the meal plan, but hadn't arrived yet in Sam's student account, and John was worried about any potential delay in his kid being able to eat in the interim, seeing how his boy would be arriving at the school in just a few days if he more or less stuck to the travel schedule that they were all expecting he would.

Dean had told John about setting up a bank account for Sam, so he hadn't been too stressed about his youngest's ability to feed himself while he was holed up in Des Moines. In fact, Rufus had reported in that he had seen the youngest Winchester make a few trips to the local grocery store over the weeks and also observed Sam working out occasionally. So at least John knew his boy eating enough to expend calories on exercise.

But John also knew that money only went so far, and Sam was always so bullishly insubordinate in regards to his disdain of the kind of hustling that normally paid the family's expenses. With his stubbornly pain in the ass strict moral code, it was more than likely that the kid was running on financial fumes already.

It was with that fear and the pressing need to provide for his child that had John swinging the Corolla eastward instead of westward.

Stretching the limits of the Toyota's miniscule engine, it took him over sixteen hours to get to his lock up at Black Rock in New York. With a barely suppressed grimace he cleared the trip wire at the entrance and ambled his way through the main section, steadfastly ignoring the rust colored stains of his own blood smeared over the devil's trap on the ground from his days being tortured here just a few months ago.

At some point, he would make it back to clean up the mess a little better, but time was already growing short as it was and he had another stop to make before he could roll into Palo Alto and settle Sam's affairs.

Pushed up against the wall was an old dusty casket that contained the remains of a particularly nasty serial killer that had been executed over twenty years ago at what just happened to be an opportune time on a cosmic level. The skeletal remains of a human who carried that type of evil inside of them naturally were prized for the value in spell work if the astrological conditions were just right.

John had been _lucky_ enough to stumble upon the unmarked grave site before another hunter could extricate the bones. So far, John had kept the casket sealed, and originally planned to continue doing so until he found out for sure whether or not he could use some of it for a ritual in his own quest.

Today, he would be breaking it open for the first time.

There was a voodoo priestess outside of Las Vegas that he knew from chatter in the community would pay handsomely for a metacarpal bone of the right hand. Something that John wouldn't have considered under ordinary circumstances, but was willing to entertain now for the cash if he could get assurances as to what she was using it for.

He wasn't necessarily too worried. The priestess was a long time acquaintance of Missouri's and he couldn't picture the normally straight arrow psychic being involved with someone that would do real harm.

He didn't think anymore about the questionable motives behind the buyer as he quickly worked. He had already let Sammy down in a lot of ways over the years. Too many to count actually, but John would be damned if he let his kid struggle unnecessarily after already depriving him of his home and his brother. The least the guilty father could do was make sure that his son had some financial resources backing him up so that he wasn't forced to make foolish or dangerous choices to keep himself afloat.

Back out on the road less than thirty minutes later, he retraced his route west, traveling at a hurried, but not illegally speeding pace before getting a call from Turner outside of Chicago telling him that Sam had just boarded a bus in Des Moines. Swearing under his breath John pressed down harder on the accelerator of the tin box Toyota, because the clock had just started ticking.

/

Sam was more than road weary by the time he disembarked from the commuter train he picked up in San Francisco that brought him within walking distance of his new campus. Three long, hot and sweaty days and four mind numbing and drudging route changes after he stepped on in Des Moines. Traveling cross country in an endless series of crowded, stuffy and odorous tubes on wheels.

His head ached from watching the passing miles get eaten up outside his various windows, to the point where he couldn't even focus on reading his dog eared novel by the time he finally boarded his last bus that took him from Reno to San Francisco. He would have thought, after all of those years on the road with his father and brother held hostage in the backseat of the Impala, he would have been prepared to be a better traveler.

Maybe it was because no matter how much he had fought it and railed against the injustices of his life, the Impala had always felt like home. Her throaty growl as comforting as any lullaby and her soft leather seats cradling him perfectly as he grew from a toddler into a gangling six feet plus teenager.

So many nights had found him sleepy and curled up under a blanket, eventually turning into a long limb sprawl across the back seat as his legs lengthened impossibly. His father's deep warm rumbling voice soothing the rough edges of Sam's conscious mind as he tumbled into slumber.

Dean's soft humming accompanying the Impala's tape deck playing _Someday Soon._ The song Dad would put in sometimes on a long night time drive trying to coax his boys into closing their eyes and resting. Doing what he could to give his sons a little connection to their deceased mother and her favorite pieces of music.

There hadn't been any of that familiarity or warmth on the impersonal buses or from the strangers surrounding him as he made his way towards the new life he had chosen for himself. Nothing but an ever changing sea of unrecognizable faces, coming and going in regular intervals from station to station and city to city.

The sun was shining a stereotypical California gold as he stepped onto the platform. Too cheery and too radiant in his mind. A grossly cartoonish picture of happiness and hope compared to the dark clouded tumult of emotions spinning in his brain as he tried to put on his best optimistic face for the sake of polite outward appearances.

When really he was tired and weary and incredibly lonely, uncaring about the pleasantly mild weather and lively student vibe.

An afternoon spent in the library in Des Moines had given him time to thoroughly map out the necessary directions to get where he was going to need to go in the next couple of days. Tomorrow all incoming students would be descending on Stanford's campus like an overly privileged, designer clothes wearing invading horde. With only certain hours dedicated to dorm registration, Sam was already envisioning the massive lines and chaos, and not looking forward to any of it.

If he had wanted to push a later afternoon registration, he could have arrived by bus tomorrow and spared himself the fifty-five dollars, plus tax, that his stay at the motel tonight was going to cost him. A veritable fortune at the moment, when his cash reserves were scrutinized with second, third and fourth thoughts assessing the importance, and carefully doled out with the frugality born of years of scrimping and tight finances.

Had he been coming straight from his home in Sioux Falls, he might have made the fiduciary choice to just roll into town and go straight to the dorm. But weeks of bathing in the unsatisfying chill of cold showers and washing his clothes by hand to dry outside draped over tree branches, let alone the days closed up in cramped quarters on buses with minimal options for washing up, had him making the decision that both he and his wardrobe would benefit from some hot water and liberal amounts of soap.

You only get to make one first impression in this life, and Sam didn't want his new dorm mates' first impression of him being the kid with the questionable personal hygiene.

The decidedly budget motel he stayed at in February was not even a mile away from the transit center where the commuter train left him. An easy for walk for just about anyone, let alone a tough, physically fit Winchester. After so many hours cooped up on public transit, Sam couldn't think of anything more attractive right now than the opportunity to stretch his neglected and stiff legs a little, so he just hefted his bags on his shoulder and struck out on foot instead of waiting for a local bus to take him up the line a little closer.

The transit center is very conveniently located near an entrance to the campus. A plus, he's sure, for any future travel plans now that he's once again a pedestrian. His beloved Camaro would certainly belong to someone else by now, and the less Sam thinks about the car that means just as much to him as the Impala means to Dean, the better. Cherry is just another casualty of Sam's rebellion, and like Dad always told him.

 _You made your bed, and now you gotta lie down in it, Son._

As he makes his way to the main road, he spares a minute to look across the busy intersection to give his future home a brief, half smile before heading onward, looking forward to beginning the new life that has cost him everything.

He has no other choice right now but to hope that it turns out to be worth it, because the price he paid had been dear and painful, and Sam _needs_ to make this new life worth it because he simply doesn't have anything else left. Life was a poker game, and Sam was all in right now. He either succeeds at Stanford or he really will lose _everything_ , and he's pretty sure that would finish the job of breaking him permanently.

The sight of palm trees lining the streets distracts him from his perpetual brooding. It's not that he hasn't seen them before in his many travels cross country, but they seem foreign to him at the moment. You would never find one on the side of the road in South Dakota, and that's where Sam considers home now. Even though he painfully knows deep down that he is no longer welcome there, it doesn't change the fact that it's where he felt safe and normal for the first time in his life, and it's a feeling of security that he desperately wants to regain.

Succeeding at Stanford and forging a new path for himself is going to give him that chance as long as he buckles down and works his ass off. While he's hoping that his life isn't all work and study, he's determined and focused with a laser intensity on excelling at his studies. Prepared to wait four, or even seven years to have fun again.

After his future is secured, there will be time to enjoy life then.

Sam is at the front desk of the motel less than fifteen minutes later. He already has a reservation since he called earlier in the week to make sure there was room, and a lifetime of checking in and out of motels makes the process brief and perfunctory.

Even the posh Stanford area has low budget motels and lazy, disinterested desk clerks, and Sam hardly pays attention to the half hearted customer service he's barely given. Not even batting an eye when the lackluster and glassy eyed twenty something dude that Sam is pretty sure is stoned on whatever cheap shit passes for skunk weed around here just flips him a single key on a chipped tag and vaguely points to the general area left of where Sam is standing.

Sam's not necessarily in the mood for idle chit chat anyway, because the thought of having to be even remotely social with one more stranger before he can get cleaned up after the long trip makes his head hurt. Without being offered directions, he finds his room easily enough on his own since it's just a couple of doors down from the one he stayed in a few months ago. The first thing he does after locking the door behind him is to take the world's longest hot shower and he almost starts to feel like a person again.

Ignoring the hunger pangs that have become an every day part of life for him, he spends the rest of his afternoon doing laundry in the motel's surprisingly clean laundry area. Carefully pulling his shirts out of the dryer one at a time while they're still warm and not yet hopelessly wrinkled to avoid having to iron them. If there's one chore Sam hates, it's ironing clothes, and he's pretty sure that the barely half star motel wouldn't have one to loan him in any case.

Dean had always been the one to make sure that Sam's uniforms were nicely pressed for school, and for the hundredth time that day he really misses his brother and the million different ways Dean had cared for him.

Thinking of his brother, Sam picks his phone out of his front pocket _again_ , and automatically brings up speed dial number one. His thumb hovers over the send button while a war rages inside of him as he tries to convince himself that there's a tiny chance that Dean might actually pick up and not just flat out ignore him, no matter how much he deserves it.

He wants to reach out to his big brother, even if it's just to let someone know where he is right now, and that he arrived in California safely. If that means he has to take the blistering tirade that his brother would be well within his rights to deliver, he should make himself man up and have the stones to do it.

Only...what could he say?

 _Hey, Dean._

 _I'm alright. I'm nervous...and a little afraid. I've never had to start school without you helping me before, and it feels_ wrong.

 _How are you doing? How's your shoulder? Your leg? You know the doctor said you need let everything heal completely before you do anything strenuous again. Please listen to him and put yourself first for once._

 _I know. I should have been there. I_ wanted _to be. I_ would _have been. Just like you always took care of me._

 _I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me. That I let you down so badly._

 _How's Dad? Does he ever mention me? Does he hate me?_

 _Do_ you _hate me?_

 _I'm gonna keep myself safe. I promise I'll remember everything you taught me._

 _I didn't want to leave you, but you know I had to go._

 _You always knew what was going on in my head. Sometimes before I did._

 _I'm sorry. So very sorry._

 _I miss you, big brother. God. So much._

 _I love you._

Sam wants to call and say these things. Dean deserves to hear them and a lot more besides. But there is the other part of Sam that's pretty sure his brother wants nothing more to do with him, and like it has since the day he left their house in Sioux Falls, it's that part of him that wins the argument inside his mind and stays his fingers from pressing the button, returning the phone to his pocket unused.

 _Again._

Sam willingly spent the money to pay for another month of phone service while he was in Des Moines, but it was really so that his brother could contact _him_ , not the other way around.

They say that time heals all wounds, and Sam really needs that to be true right now. He clings to the hope that fences can be mended once there's been a cooling down period. He'll wait quietly and patiently until the day comes when his brother decides that maybe he loves Sam more than he's angry with him, and maybe then they can work on repairing the brotherhood that Sam tore into shreds with his bare hands.

Dean's never been able to stay mad at Sam for long. It's the big brother factory default setting that has worked in Sam's favor since they were kids and Dean put up with all of Sam's crap, even when Sam was being a little dick.

Like the time Dad had agreed to buy each of them one of those cheap dime store balsa wood airplanes to keep them entertained in the Impala during a long drive. Sam was only four and didn't realize how flimsy they were and broke his almost immediately in his enthusiasm to have a new toy. When he had cried inconsolably and given his big brother the puppy eyes begging to play with his, Dean handed it over without hesitation.

Of course it was a mistake, because Sam was young and childishly careless and soon enough he had accidentally snapped that one in half as well, not understanding why it wasn't holding up to the vigorous motions he was putting it through. Only eight years old himself, Dean's anger had flared for exactly five seconds before he chose to comfort his distressed little sibling over the more expected reaction of yelling at him.

Even then Sam was leaving destruction and chaos in his wake, but Dean, although upset, would always find a way to forgive a little brother who was just curious and wanted to explore new things. Knowing that Sam never really meant to hurt Dean or break his literal and metaphorical toys.

Cable television was a luxury he hadn't been able to indulge in during the past month of relatively primitive living, so he switches it on when he's back in his room. Not that he watched a lot of TV shows in the first place. That had always been more of Dean's thing than his. His brother's love of fantasy female characters and soap opera-esque drama just another one of the endearing silly habits that he thought he kept secret but should have known better when it came to his little brother's observations.

Occasionally the two of then did hunker down in the living room together for some mindless entertainment. Dean had always hated the quiet, but too many years growing up in tight quarters with questionably functioning televisions blaring away at all hours had curbed any enthusiasm Sam might have developed for it regularly. It was hard to study when you had to try and think over canned laugh tracks, let alone Dean's almost child-like raucous giggles accompanying it.

It was just something that they could occasionally do together that didn't involve beating up on each other or killing things, and that was why Sam would consent and join his brother on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn to share while they fought over which cheesy over the top flick they saw.

The now rather urgent growling of his stomach reminded him that it had been a while since his last meal. Days on the road and the inescapable stench of mingled body odors and diesel exhaust had the financially beneficial side effect of making him queasy for the last few hundred miles of his journey, but now that he was clean and settled, his appetite made a roaring comeback.

He still had two cans of beef stew in his bag that he had packed just for his stay at the motel. Already having consumed on the buses the thin sandwiches and four last apples he budgeted for during the journey, he waited until he knew he had access to cooking facilities before having the canned food that would be more palatable warmed than just eaten straight.

There hadn't been much he could leave behind for the next person at the cabin, needing every little bit he purchased for his own existence, but when he left he was determined that someday he would go back and stock it full in repayment for his residence there.

His room had a tiny kitchenette with a sauce pan and a hotplate that he remembered from his previous stay, so he had taken the last two cans of stew with him even though it wasn't appetizing after a month of existing on similar items. Steadfastly ignoring the reality that in Palo Alto, he was in convenient distance to a long list of restaurants with delivery choices.

Although attractive as a culinary option after weeks of cheap basic staples, getting take out was prohibitively expensive right now, and as he resolutely choked down the salty and over processed meat chunks, he had to keep reminding himself that it was only for one more day.

There was one last can left to serve as his breakfast in the morning and it would be the last meal he ate out of a can for as long as he could help it. Once Sam had access to the campus dining hall, he swore to himself that it would be months before he touched anything evenly remotely close to the rations he had been surviving on for the last five weeks.

It would definitely be a long time before he could look another peanut butter sandwich in the face again.

Which only led to another reminder of all the meals Dean had cooked for them, and Sam let out a frustrated grunt, forcibly reprimanding himself for continuing to wallow in the past.

With nothing to watch on the tube, and too mentally drained to read or surf online, he decided to head back out and hit the shopping district a few miles down the road. He was going to need bedding for his dorm room, and while it would mean that he would have to tote it all along with him during registration tomorrow, it would be easier than waiting until later.

He quickly checked online for the local bus route and schedule and found that there were several straight shots to where he needed to go and he had a few hours before service shut down. There was a bus stop down the block from the motel that would take him past a Target, so he grabbed his wallet and the room key and made his way there, sprinting to make the bus that was already pulling up.

Transit was easy in a college town, and he wasn't the only student doing some last minute shopping. The whole store was obscenely noisy and jam packed with other excited and hopeful students and their overly helpful and pushy helicopter parents. Navigating overfilled shopping carts and bickering with each other over furnishing choices as they made their way around the big box store.

Sam quietly slipped through the aisles, skillfully dodging a particularly chipper and slow moving family until he found the bedding department, and took only a few minutes to pick out the cheapest bed-in-a-bag set he could find.

He physically winced after he realized that he was going to have to drop fifty bucks on a plain blue and white comforter and sheet set, along with another ten for a semi-decent pillow if he wanted to get any sleep without giving himself neck spasms. Another fifteen on towels as well as close to twenty on personal care items that he was rapidly running low on after a month in Des Moines on his own.

As the cashier rang up his purchases, he grudgingly handed over his bank card, mentally calculating the pitifully small amount remaining in his account. The bus ticket west had been steeper than he originally anticipated and the cost of maintaining himself for over a month really took a chunk out of his savings. With his resources scraping the bottom of the barrel already, he decided to send another email inquiry to the financial aid office about the status of the only disbursement check he would receive.

It was the last installment in a series of grants, stipends and loans that were making up the bulk of his college expenses. Tuition was already paid for the semester, as was his room. Those big ticket items were deducted first before everything else. He already knew that this last check wasn't going to be much. It was earmarked to pay for his meal plan and theoretically enough to cover books and his mandatory student activity fees, while Sam would get the tiny remainder.

Knowing money would be very tight, he had already opted out of the standard default meal plan in favor of the most basic choice which would give him a little more in cash from the check proceeds to keep in reserve. The basic plan would provide him breakfast and dinner every day, and Sam could make due by stuffing himself in the dining hall and sneaking out snacks to compensate for missing lunch.

Half the time he was so deep in his studies he only stopped long enough to grab fruit or something else small for a meal anyway.

A habit that thoroughly annoyed Dean because he had always monitored Sam's food intact like it was a profession. Sam's metabolism was blindingly fast and he lost weight ridiculously easily. Dean didn't like his skinny brother not eating enough and was constantly on his case about consuming several meals a day, especially during one of Sam's frequent growth spurts.

Tired now, he sat wearily on the bench at the bus stop and waited for the next bus that would take him back to the area his motel was in. It was only a few miles in distance, but it was getting late and he didn't feel like walking it. After spending a small fortune in the store for laughingly low thread count linens, what was another dollar anyway?

Well, a dollar was a load of laundry.

Which quickly reminded him that he forgot to buy the detergent he was now out of after this afternoon's washing and he groaned involuntarily. He didn't move from his seat. Too wrung out to face the store mob again and too unwilling to part with more cash until he had his check firmly in hand.

Looking down at the bags sitting on the ground between his feet, he sighed deeply over the meager contents that represented months of careful saving and sacrifice. Not that he wasn't used to making do with little, their family never really having had much anyway, he forced himself to steel his resolve and not crumble to pieces right there on the bench.

It was just the beginning of a long four years and he knew that if he was going to survive it all on his own, he couldn't afford to start off weak and feeling sorry for himself.

Waiting alone in the dark, he pulled out his phone again and wondered, not for the first time, where his brother was and what he was doing.

 _Please, God. Let Dean be okay._

/

The wood door practically split the frame when the urgency of Dean's insistent kiss slammed her body back against it. Somehow it was enough motion to force it open on its own, allowing them an unencumbered semi-stumbling entrance in the dimly lit motel room that had seen better days.

Leaning precariously against the wall, tripping and fumbling as they desperately tore at each other's clothing, Dean barely noticed the sharp edge of the dresser repeatedly wedging its way into his hip as he helped tug down her panties while simultaneously lifting her legs to wrap around his waist.

That was going to leave one hell of a bruise tomorrow, but he couldn't find it in himself to care at the moment.

He held her pressed up against the wall, not even being able to wait to walk the ten feet over to the queen sized bed behind him. Like a tiger that had finally been released from its cage after years of captivity, he pounced. Every bit the predator as he growled with desire, nipping the soft patches of skin on her neck before exuberantly making his way down to her unencumbered breasts.

She moaned in appreciation of his attention to detail and the sound of her pleasure went straight to his groin, sending electric sparks of excitement and need through his limbs.

With his desire mounting way too fast, he had to mentally step back and force himself to pump the brakes a little on his own satisfaction. Dean Winchester was a man who prided himself on ensuring the deep and prolonged pleasure of his sexual partners, and just because he'd been sitting on the sidelines for a while, it didn't mean that he was just going to give this game a walk on performance.

With surprisingly minimal effort, no doubt fueled by the long dry months of pent up frustration, he hoisted her up high enough to get her thighs resting on his shoulders instead, grimacing slightly from the pressure on his still mending collarbone, but plowing forward just the same.

Staring into her eyes blown wide with lust, he gave her a quick dirty look of pure and unadulterated sin, then winked and disappeared under the folds of her skirt.

Not to brag or anything, but he really does have a truly gifted tongue.

Enough that he was only halfway through pleasuring her with the alphabet game before she was screaming his name repeatedly. Arms flailing about helplessly because there was nothing in her immediate reach to grab onto other than his fabric covered head and she happened to like him right where he was at the moment. Rocking her own head back repeatedly against the door, she moaned loud enough for the obviously celibate and cranky people in the neighboring room to bang irritably and complain.

 _They should really just listen and pay attention_ , Dean thought as he continued his ministrations unfazed. Certainly they could learn a trick or two, and maybe they could be getting laid as well.

She didn't actually make it to the end of the game either.

Dean was working it like a starving man that had been wandering lost in a desert for months and who had just come across a Golden Corral buffet oasis. By the time he got to _W_ , she was not only screaming his name in climax, but _God!_ and _Jesus! Christ!_ too as the pointy heels of her stilettos dug painfully into his back.

It wasn't the first time that one of his partners had felt a sudden onrush of religion and spiritual exultation at key moments during their time together.

Dean still didn't know what those other guys had to do with it since _he_ was the one doing all the work here.

He didn't give her a lot of time to recover, desperate for his own first release. Quickly maneuvering them over to the bed in a rushed, half waddle with his pants down around his ankles. Ready to go for a second round they crashed collectively to the mattress, and he had a passing momentary thought of being impressed that the cheap pressed wood bed frame bore the energetic impact without splintering.

By the time their evening together was over, no piece of furniture had been spared their porno worthy acrobatics. Long after Dean put the motel and the girl in his rear view, the chambermaids would be trying to air out the overwhelming collective scent of _Love's Baby Soft_ perfume, edible hot cinnamon body oil, _Old Spice,_ tequila and sex.

 _They'd probably need to throw that one pillow out too._

Thoroughly sated and content after a few more days of the same in a few more bars and motels along the route, Dean drove in the general direction of Blue Earth a man reborn, with a new lease on life and two thoroughly empty Val-U pack condom boxes left behind in trash bins.

Feeling more alive than he had in...well... _forever_ it seemed.

It was the first time in a long time that he had felt like himself again, and while it would have been easy for Dean to blame Sammy for his self imposed domestication and resulting celibacy, he wasn't going to be that unfair. It had been _Dean's_ choice to leave life on the road in an effort to keep his kid brother close. Determined to settle for a life more ordinary that left a large part of him unfulfilled if it made Sammy happy.

But it wasn't who _he_ was.

He liked having the house _just fine_ , and he would be going back soon, because it did feel like home now.

But there was also another part of him.

An insatiable wild thing inside him that demanded attention and regular feeding.

Whether it was actually food, a stiff drink, a successful hunt or just a plain old good fuck.

A part of him that he had allowed his willingness to sacrifice for his brother to unflinchingly suppress.

Riding high on the waves of some fabulous nights out, he was sure that it wasn't a mistake he was going to make again.

/

Years from now, Sam will eventually learn about God, Michael, Lucifer and the importance of the Winchester brothers on a truly cosmic scale.

Of being put smack dab in the middle of so many global shit storms that he and Dean will, at some point, stop counting the number of times that they are called upon to give their all to the greater good, simply because of who they were born and raised to be.

Unfortunately, standing in his new dorm room at Stanford, he doesn't yet possess the understanding of his status in an unknowing and unconcerned world. All he does know is that his roommate and their two closest neighbors leave him feeling woefully too small and inadequate to compete in their current significantly more lofty spheres of existence.

Sam is the first one of the four young men to reach the check in desk of his dorm in FroSoCo, the cutesy nickname of Stanford's _Freshman Sophomore College._ A program within a program for select freshmen and sophomores with a housing complex in the far corner of the campus that is part of Sterling Quad.

By some miracle of the draw, one that he still doesn't comprehend exactly how it happened, he's been assigned to Adams, one of FroSoCo's two houses, and blessed with one of the covetous two room doubles. Essentially almost affording him a single room without having to worry about covering the exorbitant extra cost of having one.

Upon his acceptance, he hadn't really cared what his new living accommodations were going to be like, and he certainly hadn't had the forethought to apply for the enhanced residential program he suddenly found himself accepted into. Although he had enjoyed the last year in the comfort of a nice home with a bedroom to himself, he still had many years of living rough in motel rooms and furnished slum apartments.

All things considered, he had to imagine that Stanford's worst dorm room would still be miles ahead of a lot of the places the Winchesters had called home over the years.

So his concern for housing at Stanford had been at the far bottom of the list of things to be concerned about, especially compared to nuclear level fallout from his departure from his family.

During his month of solitude in Des Moines, he had been able to glean a little more information online about the various housing options at the university. FroSoCo was a little removed from the main part of the campus, which would mean that he would be walking more to get around, but he didn't mind. Physical fitness was second nature to him after years of his father's mandatory hard conditioning.

In fact, Sam was relatively pleased with the overall consensus that the students in his new dorm tended to congregate mostly among themselves, and were affectionately considered the nerds among an entire campus of hard core academics. Still fairly socially awkward around strangers, the idea of living in a smaller community with students likely to be similar to his own personality was very appealing.

He had no delusions that he would, at some point, get around to experiencing all of the usual college hijinks that every other student engaged in, but he wasn't about to let himself forget that he was here to _study_ and make something of himself. That he had intentionally torpedoed his relationship with his father and brother for the chance of something better, and he wasn't about to flush it all down the proverbial toilet by partying.

The entire campus was buzzing with activity from the moment he stepped foot on the grounds. Sam had made sure that he arrived particularly early, and was standing right in front of the entrance to his quad the minute he could check into his new room, wanting to get settled as soon as possible.

With his duffel bags and backpack slung across his shoulders and his shopping bags from his trip to Target gripped tightly in his hand, desperately trying to stand tall and not give away how positively scared he was, he was almost the first in line for his housing packet.

The perky blonde with a wild tumble of curls sitting at the registration table was just on this side of being a little too friendly, and maybe Sam would have given a moment's thought to her obvious attraction to him if he wasn't so tightly wound.

Too many painful glimpses of incoming freshmen being herded around by their proud parents. Most of them looking a little bewildered at their new surroundings, but at the same time rolling their eyes over enthused attention from weepy mothers and road weary fathers who were struggling with their impending separation from their academically gifted offspring.

Sam was equal measures jealous of, and thoroughly annoyed by, these extraordinarily fortunate kids who didn't seem to realize how lucky they were that they had parents who cared enough to be there for them today. He allowed himself a few moments of hurt that Dad and Dean weren't here with him, but then he ruthlessly pushed it down again into that bottomless pit of a hiding place inside of him that seemed genetically engineered in a Winchester to help swallow the pain, and drew upon his well of anger and resentment to fill up the empty spaces in between.

Once again reminding himself that he was doing the _normal_ thing, and it was his father's and brother's problem if they couldn't accept that and support him.

Giving the overly solicitous registration co-ed a perfunctory thanks, he racked his shoulders back and strode forward in search of his room, determined that his momentary lapse into weakness would be the last one he allowed himself today.

Of course, that wasn't realistic or at all likely to happen.

It wasn't hard to find his new residence. Adams House was just a few yards away from the check-in. In keeping with the school's Mission Style architecture, Adams was a four story building that looked just big enough to have a good mix of students without being _too_ crowded. Sam walked through a latticed archway into a pleasant courtyard that was central to the complex and studded around the perimeter with nice wooden park benches, easily finding the right door for the entrance closest to his room.

Although, from a studying point of view, he would have preferred a room on an upper floor, away from the noise of any potential foot traffic, he grudgingly admitted that being assigned to a first floor room was better from a safety standpoint.

Immediately hating himself for quickly defaulting back to a hunter's mindset when thinking about where he would lay his head at night.

The two room doubles were basically single rooms that had a connecting door to each other. So while Sam technically had a roommate, they weren't actually going to share the same space.

Unfortunately, there was only one door out to the hallway for both rooms to use, and it appeared that Sam got the honor of being the one who was going to be stuck getting woken up in the middle of the night if his more remotely located roommate was the kind of guy that didn't understand basic concepts like quiet study and uninterrupted sleep.

Immediately chastising himself that most financial aid dependent students got corralled into triples and quads like cattle, he was going to shut his mental cake hole and not bitch about the theoretical inconsideration from someone that was probably paying a small fortune to share the same freaking door with him.

As expected, the room itself is sparse, containing only a bed, desk, chair and dresser. There is a small closet that's more than adequate to house his neatly rolled mound of recently laundered clothing that included a few hangers which was _another_ thing he forgot to buy, so that was nice.

Looking at the naked bed, he immediately drops his shopping bags on top of it. The first order of business will be making up the blessedly extra-long mattress that offered him a few precious inches for his mile long legs. A little detail that had thrilled him when he read the specifics of his room assignment.

When you're pushing six-four, every spare millimeter is a bonus.

Really he should launder his new bedding before using it, hence the need for the detergent that he doesn't possess. It's going to be rough enough on his skin as it is with the laughingly low thread count. Deciding that he would have to settle for looking neat and tidy for the arrival of his new roommate, he quickly makes the bed up and vows to wash it all as soon as his check is safely deposited.

It doesn't take him long to get the bed shipshape, and the tidy sharp corners drilled into him by his father come without consciously thinking about it. Sam repeatedly reminds himself that he has a lifetime of weird quirks and habits to break if he truly wants to separate himself from the way he was raised.

With almost no personal possessions, it only takes him twenty odd minutes to put his things away in the dresser and closet. His laptop finds an obvious home on the desk, and the last things he removes from his duffel before shoving it at the back of his tiny closet are the framed photos that he took from his room in Sioux Falls. In preparation for them, he has kept the top of his dresser cleared, as pride of place, where he can set them up so that they are the first things he sees in the morning.

Although it's painful now to look at the faces of the people he loves, knowing that he will most likely never see any of them again and leaving him with nothing but bittersweet memories, he can't part with any of the pictures.

Young Mom and Dad, taken from Dad's journal by Dean and copied for Sam to have his very own memento of his parents. A group shot of his friends inhaling Dean's signature ten layer lasagna during one of the study sessions in the Winchester's kitchen. Sam and Alex at the prom, smiling wide and carefree in front of the cheesy backdrop at the school gym.

Sam and Dad at Christmas standing in front of the Camaro. Arms around each other's shoulders and looking happy and relaxed together for once. A sharp pain hits Sam in the gut, remembering what a wonderful week it had been. How he had finally been shown a completely different side to the man that had raised him as a soldier.

Christmas had been a perfect, wonderful day, and one of the first things Sam had realized after he got on the bus to Des Moines was remembering that he had forgotten to take Mom's precious picture from its usual place on Cherry's instrument panel.

That had hurt more than he could take at the time, and he fervently hopes that Dean thought to remove it before selling her.

The last one is hard.

 _Too hard_.

Dean and Sam at Sam's graduation. Taken by Alex at Dean's insistence that he have a photo to commemorate the day with his geeky valedictorian kid brother.

Sam reverently holds the dark cherry wood frame in his hands for just a minute and wills back the tears that want to spill out as he absently traces the carved scroll around the edges that says _Brothers_. Just before they left on that horrible last hunt where Sam's entire life went to shit, Dean had approached him one night after dinner, all unusually quiet and apprehensive for some reason, and presented it to him.

His big brother not always being someone comfortable with words, Sam knew it was Dean's way of expressing his affection for him without having to get bogged down in overly dramatic sentiment.

Dean is the person that Sam knows better than anyone in the world. Knows every facial tick and tell from a lifetime of living two feet away from each other. The big brother in this photo is bursting with love and pride as he wraps an affectionate arm around Sam. With a formidable presence so steady and sure that the height difference isn't even really that noticeable.

That's the killer, right there.

The unmistakable knowledge that Dean actually _was_ proud of Sam for what he had accomplished. That if things were handled differently with more thought and tact, even if Dad was too angry to be here today, Dean _would_ have been.

It's Sam's fault that he's alone right now, surrounded by an inescapable glut of shiny, happy families that he's not a part of.

Even through the two dimensional aspect of a photo, it would be clear to anyone that Dean was the strong and sturdy big brother, hugging his giant of a younger sibling, and Sam is rocked back off his feet from the oppressive wave of loss he feels. He drops to sit on the end of his military precision made bed and clutches the frame to his chest, breath hitching and desperate to regain his composure before his roommate walks in and finds him in the middle of a torrential rain of emotion.

He swipes a traitorous tear from the corner of his right eye, and when he is able to stand back up, he determinedly places the photo so that it is hidden behind the others. It's a cruel disservice to his brother to be relegated to an unseen position on the dresser, but Sam knows that if he is met with Dean's face every morning, he's never going to be able to make himself stay in California.

The desire to tuck tail and run back to his brother, wherever he is, no matter what he's doing, is too strong right now, and Sam doesn't trust himself that he will be able to fight it for long if he lets himself think too much.

While he is still getting his emotions under control there is a sudden racket in the hallway making its way down towards his end of the floor. There's clearly an argument of some sort going on, although Sam can't rightly determine the topic since the participants are speaking in a rapid fire Spanish that goes way above his minimal ninth grade level of comprehension.

In any case, he's a private person himself, so he doesn't feel a particular need to investigate. After all, this is California, and it would be strange if a few of his new dorm mates _weren't_ fluent Spanish speakers.

As he sits awkwardly on his bed, debating the merits of pouring over the course catalog _again_ before submitting his mandatory study list tomorrow, the cacophony has grown much louder until it eventually lands right in front of him. Sam is not the kind of kid that sticks his nose into the business of others, so when he realizes that his across the hall neighbor is moving in, he slips off the bed and takes a seat at the desk, flipping open his laptop and sorting through the welcome packet trying to figure out how to connect to the university's internet.

His door has been left open, simply because he didn't think to close it with his roommate still to arrive, and with the exception of his laptop there really isn't anything of monetary value to take from him if he needs to dart down the hall to use the restroom. He has few possessions, and although some of them might mean the world to him, he knows they are worth nothing to others.

A slave to his lifetime of training, he does have the curved, ornately scrolled silver S _uan Ywe Gou_ blade, Dad's idea of a seventeenth birthday gift, that is buried at the bottom of his duffel, but it's so well hidden that it will never be found unless you're actually looking for it. It's pretty enough to be considered a collector's item to someone who doesn't know what it's truly capable of.

The days of being the school freak with the personal arsenal are over for him.

Behind him, across the hall, he can hear sounds now of bickering and laughing, and when he risks a furtive glance over his shoulder he catches glimpses of the family settling in. First seeing two young girls that couldn't be more than twelve or thirteen. With shiny black hair pulled back in corkscrew curl ponytails and mocha colored skin, it's immediately obvious that they are identical twins and will someday be incredible beauties.

They are occasionally engaging in whining debates with their equally beautiful mother as they lug boxes into the inner room of the two room double parallel to Sam's, and he suppresses a smirk, remembering how he had battled with own father at that age.

At _every_ age actually.

The smirk disappears as quickly as it had come.

Their mother is a stunning woman. From brief snatches out of the corner of his eye Sam estimates her to be roughly the same age as his dad, and unlike her darker skinned daughters, she is more Latina in her looks. He doesn't want to keep staring at her and give his new neighbor the impression that he's creeping on the guy's mom, but there is something disturbingly familiar about her. From her voice to her looks, and the fact that Sam's almost photographic memory can't place the resemblance is starting to annoy him.

Sam finally gets introduced to his fellow student when a ridiculously good looking guy his own age emerges from the inner room, quieting the twins with an obviously practiced sharp look as he kisses his mom's cheek and then boldly walks directly into Sam's room without an invitation. Standing half a foot shorter than Sam, he's dressed far too nicely for move in day, and as his eyes sweep around the fairly empty room with almost no personality to it, he looks genuinely horrified.

"This is the saddest dorm room on campus," he states matter-of-fact as he flops down on Sam's cheap comforter. "You need a decorator, a couple of drinks and a haircut, sweetie."

Sam's inner hermit is taken aback for a moment by the stranger's bluntness, but then he sees a sparkle of humor in the other boy's dark eyes and it makes him chuckle. Standing, he raises to his full height, watching in amusement as his new neighbor's eyes go wide as he sizes him up, and leans over to offer his hand in greeting.

"Sam Winchester. Hopeless designer and part time caveman impersonator."

The other boy cocks an eyebrow and then bursts into laughter, taking Sam's hand as he stands up.

"Luis Roberts. Bisexual, biracial and by God gorgeous."

Sam likes him immediately.

Luis loves to talk about himself, so it takes all of ten minutes to get his life's story. Raised in Beverly Hills, he's the oldest child of divorced parents. His father is a high powered entertainment lawyer and not terribly high on the list of his son's favorite people. There is an obvious distaste on Luis' face just speaking about the man in general terms, and Sam is somewhat comforted that he's not the only one with paternal issues.

In contrast, Luis clearly adores his mother who has come over twice to meet Sam and affectionately chastise her son for procrastinating and socializing when he should be helping her and his sisters get him settled. With an arm slung around her petite shoulders, Luis proudly informs Sam that she is an actress on a popular Mexican telenovela. That's when Sam realizes where he recognizes her from, because her show is one of Dean's guilty pleasures that he watches when he thinks Sam is studying and not paying attention.

He's excited for the half second it takes for him to remember that he can't actually call his brother and brag about meeting her.

Luis scolds and teases his little sisters mercilessly, switching back and forth in increasingly loud bursts of English and Spanish, but it's also clear that he absolutely dotes on them and they, him. Watching their loving and carefree interaction is almost too much for Sam's raw emotions to endure and he has to press his fingernails into the palms of his hands, practically drawing blood, to keep from tearing up in front of his new dorm mate.

Soon after, Luis' roommate arrives, and Luis himself bounds over to make introductions. Zach Warren and his parents are friendly, but politely quiet and understated. A sharp contrast to the Robertses, although the two mothers seem to hit it off immediately.

When Sam is introduced to them, it is glaringly apparent that the Warrens are exceptionally well-to-do also. Zach and his father are dressed casually, but Sam can recognize the brands easily enough to know just how much their clothes alone cost. He's momentarily hyper-aware of his plain tee and faded jeans, and he reflexively folds his arms across his chest in an apparent bid to try to hide his poorly thought out wardrobe choice for the day.

They are also a bilingual family, as Mrs. Warren is French by birth and Zach tells Sam that his parents spend half the year living in Paris where the European headquarters of the family's pharmaceutical company is based.

Mrs. Warren is tall and lithe. She has a lilting accent that is polished and a sophisticated air about her that is decidedly Parisian. Of course Sam is asked about his own family, and when he shyly explains that his mother has passed away, Mrs. Warren wraps a sympathetic arm around him in a gesture that oddly touches him and yet discomforts him as well.

Sam is the tactile member of the Winchester family, for as much as any of them can be considered as such. He's always been the first one to hug and cuddle his brother and father growing up, much to their long suffering amusement. When Zach's mother makes the harmless gesture, Sam is embarrassed to find himself flinching involuntarily just the same, because he doesn't actually like physical contact from anyone he doesn't inherently know and trust one hundred percent.

He blushes, because he knows she was only trying to be kind, but he's also relieved when she gets the subtle hint and moves away gracefully.

There's been no mother figure in his life and Sam's senses are on overload, both by her soft half embrace and the scent of her decidedly expensive perfume, and for a moment he feels like a trapped animal and just wants to dive back into the safety of his own private space because this day isn't getting any easier.

Zach speaks English to his father and French to his mother, and Sam is feeling far out of his element in the presence of families that are so vastly different from his own. The current atmosphere only heightens Sam's insecurities and self awareness that he is positively rustic in comparison with these two new boys that seem to have nothing in common with a kid that was raised poor and practically homeless most of his life.

When Sam mentions that he has an older brother, Zach tells him about his little sister Becky who isn't with them today. Like Zach was last year at this time, Rebecca is in Switzerland at Le Rosey. What Sam will later learn is the preeminent boarding school in Europe. The Warrens also have a house in St. Louis, where the American headquarters of the family business is based, and that is really where Zach considers home.

When asked, Sam tells them that he's originally from Kansas, although he graduated from a respectable private school in South Dakota, and inwardly thanks his brother for the ability to not be completely embarrassed about the humble circumstances of his past.

The Robertses and the Warrens decide to have an introductory late lunch together and they invite Sam to join them. He knows that the right thing would be to go, but he's getting close to the end of his socializing tether already, the love and comfort of happy families around him starting to choke him with their blatant displays of affection and painful good intentions.

Politely begging off, he uses the excuse of wanting to wait for his own roommate to arrive to explain his reluctance to go and luckily they accept it easily enough.

They all head out together in a chipper gaggle of languages and accents and expensive clothes, leaving Sam with the impression that there is a mini United Nations delegation wandering the clipped manicured lawns of FroSoCo. With their departure, the pressure in his chest starts to ease off just a little and he realizes in horror that he had come very close to having a full-on panic attack in front of his new dorm mates and their families.

For all of Sam's potential brashness and forceful personality when the situation requires it, he actually prefers life as an introvert, and as much as he has been lonely for the past few weeks, living on his own with nothing but the wildlife surrounding the cabin to keep him company, the collective enthusiasm of Luis and Zach et al had been too much overload on his still raw and broken heart.

Feeling nervous and insecure again, he rubs a hand gingerly over the bulge in his right front pocket where his cell phone is hidden, fingers trembling like a junkie trying to fight off a twitching desire for a quick fix. Knowing that just the _sound_ of Dean's voice would be enough to calm him down right now, and he desperately _wants_ to hit that speed dial one and have his big brother talk him round and assure him that he's _okay_ and that he can _do this_.

There's never been another time in Sam's life when he didn't have his goofy, overprotective sibling to turn to when things got to be too much to handle. Most of the time Sam hadn't even needed to say anything at all. One look at his face, and Dean would instantly know that his kid brother was metaphorically deep in his turtle shell and shutting the world out.

And Dean had never failed to know exactly how to rectify the situation.

Whether Sam needed a shoulder to cry on. Or get taken to a movie to blot away whatever had gotten him worked up. Whether Dean needed to kick the ass of some punk kid that was stupid enough to mess with his little brother, or play the snarky fool to cheer Sam up.

Even if it was just to get his petulant baby sibling to roll his eyes and whine out the manufactured and well practiced _Deeeaaannn,_ _c'mon_ that never failed to stop Sam from wallowing in whatever misery he had been in.

Watching Luis and Zach with their families has built up a rising tide of need in Sam to hear Dean's voice. To be reminded that he too was once beloved and cherished. He sees in the way Luis dotes on his little sisters and the way that Zach had spoken with warm affection about his own little sister, everything that he always saw in Dean with _him_ as they grew up.

And the abjectly frightened and insecure little brother inside of him wants that back.

 _Right. Now._

Mind made up, he slips his hand in his pocket and withdraws his phone. Scrolls to the speed dials and is about to press the send button for number one when he hears someone step stealthily into his room.

Tyson Brady, all six feet two, two hundred and ten pounds and tumbling blond hair of him is a complex character and Sam's new roommate. Standing in the doorway like he owns the place and regarding Sam like he's a curious new puzzle to solve.

Everything about him screams privilege and success that only increases as Sam learns about him.

From his self made titan of tech father who seems to control half of Silicon Valley, to his San Francisco old money society family mother. Sent to the best schools and groomed to impeccable standards, Tyson is the physically impressive former quarterback of his posh private academy. He also graduated top of his class, speaks four languages fluently and is currently dating a model.

He's also completely miserable, but Sam won't realize _that_ until much later in their friendship.

Startled by his presence in their doorway, Sam blinks, frowns as he puts the phone away reluctantly, and introduces himself. Tyson, or _just_ _Brady_ as he prefers to be called, isn't accompanied by a rush of loving parents and siblings as he moves in. Trailing meekly behind him are two men that clearly work for a moving company and an older man in a sharp suit that Brady introduces to Sam as the family chauffeur.

It's clear as the three other men ferry boxes and furniture into Brady's room that he's swimming in material wealth and is the physical embodiment of entitlement. Bringing with him so many things that it's soon clear that one room won't be enough to hold them all, and forces Brady to boldly ask Sam if some things can be put in his room instead. Sam doesn't mind, not wanting to get off to a bad start with the guy he's going to be living with for the next ten months.

It's fine, especially after it turns out that Brady is only asking for space for things that they can both use like the mini fridge, microwave and some bean bags that will be more comfortable to relax in than their desk chairs.

Brady's moving crew are fast and efficient and gone twenty minutes later. With the hubbub of the rooms dying down, Sam assumes that Brady is going to want to spend time getting settled so reaches once again for his phone only to be stopped this time by a pizza delivery guy laden down with three large pies standing at their door. Now thoroughly annoyed, because he's starting to lose his nerve about calling Dean, Sam glares inhospitably.

Brady is clearly waiting for him, walking past Sam briskly before throwing a wad of bills at the guy and shutting the door behind him. Turning around to Sam he smiles and, for a moment, reminds Sam of his brother's confident grin.

"Hungry?"

The two boys immediately bond over their pizza feast. At first, Sam is reluctant to dig in, even though every taste bud he owns is going into a frenzied overdrive just from the smell alone, and his hunger from the weeks of deprivation is suddenly a living thing as his stomach tries to leap out of his throat in search of something that doesn't come from a can or a box.

He's even more than willing for once to pounce on the slices laden heavily with the greasy pepperoni that Dean adores, but Sam usually bitches about.

Brady is forcibly insistent that the entirety of the order be devoured while they get acquainted, and chides Sam that it would be embarrassing if two such strapping guys as themselves can't manage to put away a few pizzas between them. Pride firmly intact, his willpower to keep thinking frugally wilting under the heady aroma of melted cheese, Sam offers to chip in for the cost but is immediately rejected, for which is he is silently thankful.

Dropping into one of the bean bags with an entire pizza box on his lap, Brady demands that Sam tell him his life story, and when Sam stutters and hesitates, obviously uncomfortable, Brady relents and tells Sam his instead.

Sam's never tasted anything as good as that pizza is right now, hot and gooey with just the right spices.

Although he suspects that it's more that weeks of a plain fare subsistence having primed his mouth for long missed flavors and textures.

He sits quietly and attentive, trying not to wolf down the food as Brady talks, determined to get a firm understanding of the other boy as is his pattern when meeting new people. Dean's always teased him about the way he observes others in an intense state of concentration instead of actually interacting with them.

He wonders why Brady is moved in by the hired help instead of his parents, and asks just that, only to have his new roommate laugh humorlessly as he explains to Sam that a first day of college isn't important enough on the grand scale of the Brady family for his success driven father to give up a day of meetings or his vapid, ice queen of a mother to give up her weekly spa appointment.

The way Brady talks about his parents leaves a chill in the air between them, and Sam feels a little pang of sympathy for the other boy.

Even though Sam has come on his own as well, he thinks that the disinterest of Brady's parents is somehow sadder than his own family's for reasons he can't define right now.

Brady is the youngest of his family, like Sam. He has an older brother Barclay the Second, or _Clay_ as Brady corrects himself with a mocking and condescending note to his voice, who is in his last year at Wharton. Just talking about his older brother seems to make Brady physically ill, and Sam is surprised by the level of vehemence in Brady's demeanor.

He also has an older sister, Celia who is currently on a world tour with friends from Radcliffe and who, as far as Brady is concerned, can stay away permanently.

Sam can't imagine having the level of hostility towards a sibling that Brady seems to hold, and then it makes him wonder what Dean is saying about _him_ these days. It's at that point that he rethinks his earlier decision about calling his brother, sure that hearing a similar level of vitriol in his big brother's voice directed at _Sam_ would finish breaking him after the emotional roller coaster he's been on today.

They're halfway through the third pizza by the time Luis and Zach come back, and after that it's one long whirlwind of introductions and a long night of getting-to-know-you conversations between the four boys.

Of course they ask questions about Sam, and he is as truthful and vague as he can be. Telling them only that his father and brother are talented mechanics. That Dad is a former Marine and used to own a garage, but after losing Sam's mother, he took the boys on the road to do specialty jobs.

Sam doesn't elaborate what kind.

Likewise, Dean works with their father and restores classic cars when he has the time, and Sam shows the photo of himself and Dad with Cherry as an example of his work.

It's a massively whitewashed version of the truth, and Sam is relieved when they don't push for more specific details, because his family's unique past is no one's business and he won't be giving any more information anytime soon. Everyone is tired after a long day and it's not long before they split up to go their separate ways.

By the time Sam is ready to go to bed, he's exhausted, pleasantly full for the first time in over a month, and thoroughly homesick.

Brady insists on keeping their connecting door open, and Sam is pleased by the affability they have started to build between them so quickly, but also concerned, because his nightmare has been coming to him pretty steadily over the past few weeks, and with his past being dredged up and his emotions running high, he suspects tonight will be bad.

He makes a quick excuse that he snores like a freight train to encourage separating the rooms, but Brady isn't dissuaded. He assures Sam that not only does he wear headphones to bed, but he sleeps like the dead.

Sam climbs into his bed that night, overwhelmed and mentally drained, and while he's fairly pleased with his new neighbors, he's missing his brother even more than before.

/

It's just shy of midnight when John rolls into the dirt parking lot of Harvelle's Roadhouse.

A man used to being on the road and driving endless hours behind the wheel, he's just about at the end of his endurance tonight. The past few days have been rough on him, physically and emotionally, and as he rubs a hand through the scruff building up on his chin, he almost convinces himself to start the car back up and just keep heading north to Sioux Falls.

But he doesn't, because he has obligations to meet here now that there are people from the community keeping his youngest son safe.

Nothing much intimidates John, but he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit how out of his element he had been in Stanford's Financial Aid office two days ago. Wildly out of place in his worn jeans and khaki over shirt as he stood in line in the tastefully appointed posh office while he waited to be seen by one of the assistant bursars.

But just because he felt uncomfortable being there, the deep, penetrating sorrow over his rift with his youngest tingeing every emotion he owned, didn't mean that he was any less the charming bastard he was used to being to get what he wanted on a job.

After an initial propensity towards outright dismissal, the woman behind the counter was flattered and cajoled enough to open Sam's financial records to his obviously concerned and well meaning father. It was technically a breach in protocol, since Sam was a legal adult, but the fact was, when it comes to colleges and expenses, it was usually the parents who shouldered the load anyway.

It didn't take long for John to get the lay of the land as to what was covered and what was still lacking. The assistant assured him that everything really _was_ in order as far as Sam's expenses were concerned. As a matter of fact, the last funds they had been waiting on had just been electronically received earlier that day, and when all was said and done, Sam would still be getting a disbursement for just over two hundred dollars.

A meticulous man, his years of dedicated research and attention to detail surging to the forefront, John went over his boy's finances carefully to ensure that Sammy wouldn't be caught lacking and find himself in trouble. Frowning when he saw the description of the meal plan that he knew wasn't nearly enough to keep his lanky, still growing kid properly fed.

John might be a stubborn asshole sometimes. _Hell, most of the time_. There's plenty of people who would wholeheartedly share that tidbit of information with you, with or without the aid of a glass or four of _Hunter's Helper_ _._ He's also made more than his share of mistakes over the years with his kids, and he himself is the first one that would admit to each and every one of them without hesitation.

But at the end of the day, he's always tried to do the best he could for them when he could.

Kicking his baby boy out of the house will certainly be the final punch in John's ticket downstairs one day, when things end bloody like he knows it will. It doesn't matter that Sammy was the one who decided to walk away, regardless of how much John and Dean needed him with them. All it matters is that John was supposed to be the boy's father _first_ , and today, Sam's father is going to at least make sure that his kid gets a decent meal plan.

The now flirting assistant explains to John that Sam will get a disbursement of _any_ amount left over after his remaining expenses are paid. John sees a way to give his kid some spending money, so he forks over twenty-two hundred dollars in cash to pay for the school's premium meal plan, plus another three hundred that will go directly into Sam's student account that can be used at the campus bookstore or any of the non-traditional dining hall food venues.

Sam will therefore receive a check including the twenty-two hundred the kid wasn't expecting and more besides, and his father is slightly more comfortable in knowing that his boy won't be completely destitute this semester. Sam's just as stubborn as old man is, and John knows that his boy would never agree to take anything from his father after their falling out.

At least this way, Sam will take the check from the school and have a little cushion to fall back on.

He goes back to his motel feeling a little less shitty about his lackluster parenting skills after that, but not so much that he eases up on the self flagellation of losing it with his son that day. It's too little, too late, but it's all he can do at the moment to be anything remotely resembling the loving father he desperately wants to be to Sam.

Taking out that evil son of a bitch that destroyed his family will be the best thing he can do for his kid, because John is determined that its death is the key to saving Sam from whatever fucked up fate life has in store for him.

And he _will_ save Sam.

Or die trying.

Until then, John concedes that there are worse things than letting the boy have a little bit of happiness in his life being the college kid that John knows Sam has wanted to be since he was fourteen.

Sam might think his old man knows nothing about him, but he'd be wrong. John could tell you the exact day he saw the change in his adolescent son, and he's been trying to hold onto his kid with a tenuous grip that's been increasingly slipping inch by inch ever since.

Later, after checking out of his motel, John packs up the car and plans to blow town as soon as he sees Sam arrive safely before heading to Nebraska. As he putters in the parking lot checking the fluid levels under the hood, Caleb calls him to say that Sam just climbed aboard a commuter train in San Francisco and is headed to Palo Alto.

Now that Sam is on his way, suddenly John's first instinct is to get the hell out of Dodge before his boy catches a glimpse of him and they have another epic showdown right there in the streets of the quaint college town for everyone to see.

He assumes that Sam would be furious to know that his father had the nerve to even be in the area, and John can already hear the hurled accusations and insults being slung in his direction by his youngest who wouldn't hesitate to meticulously list, _in alphabetical order_ , every fault and failing John has ever had as a father.

But the plain truth is that John is desperate to see his little boy again, even if it has to be from a distance. He's been told for weeks that Sammy is safe and doing okay, but it's one thing to be told and quite another to see it with his own eyes. It's probably a huge mistake, but he decides to be covertly hidden somewhere at the transit center, so that he's up close and personal just long enough to watch his boy get off that train.

John finds the most logical spot for his stakeout, his binoculars already sitting next to him, and he's keeping an eye on the steady stream of travelers milling about the area. Instinctively assuring himself that Sam isn't being followed by anyone.

Or _anything_.

The minutes pass slowly, and John gets the sensation of watching paint dry on a humid day when every stroke takes forever and nothing goes according to plan. It seems like an eternity before the train carrying his son pulls into the station, and by the time it comes to a complete stop, John is about to burst out of his skin.

His legendary patience drops far back into the distance when it comes to space getting in between him and his kids.

John watches with increased apprehension until he sees the familiar lanky body and mop of chestnut curls that belongs to his little boy descend onto the platform. This is one of the longest stretches that he's ever been separated from his child, and upon seeing Sam, alive and in apparent good health, John's heart leaps up into his throat in relief and he nearly chokes on the love he has for his son.

The desire to bolt from the confines of the hidden Corolla and throw his arms around his boy is almost overwhelming, and John literally has to grip the door handle with a feverish clench to keep him inside the car, it's flimsy plastic groaning its displeasure under his iron clad fingers. He watches with pride as Sam scans the immediate area for any signs of threats before hoisting his bags on his shoulder and walking towards the main road.

The smart thing now would be to discretely pull away and let Sam get on with his life. Robert had called early yesterday to give the update that the almost private dorm room arranged for Sam had been properly warded by Christian in his guise as campus security. The campus itself has been checked and checked again for anything out of the ordinary, and Ash has confirmed that there have been no noticeable demon omens in the general area.

John expects Sam to cross the intersection and head towards campus, but when the boy turns right and starts to make his way down the main drag, John finds himself gearing up for a mobile surveillance. His son doesn't go too far, just a little over a mile as his father follows behind, using every trick he knows not to get spotted by his kid who has been trained to notice such things.

An idea begins to dawn in John's mind, and he's quickly proven correct when he watches Sam cross the road and head towards the motel that John himself has just check out of.

 _Like father, like son._

John wasn't prepared for Sam to not go directly to his dorm room. A pertinent piece of information that he kicks himself for not considering. It's a mistake in planning that he would reprimand his sons for making, and the double standard of that doesn't go unnoticed by him. He wasn't about to let his boy spend a night unprotected either, so he changes his plans and makes the decision to settle in for the long haul.

He watches Sam emerge from the front office and navigate his way along the outdoor balcony of the second floor to find his room. Life's irony kicking John squarely in the teeth with the fact that it is literally next door to the one where he slept last night. Then watches the general perimeter a while longer until Sam exits his room and totes his duffel to the laundry room on the first level.

As the moments tick by, it's getting harder and harder to resist the temptation to just announce his presence and maybe call a truce long enough to take his son to dinner. Sam looks healthy and even a little tan, but John's pretty sure that the boy is carrying around a little less bulk these days, and it's a niggling observation that John's guilty mind is having a hard time coming to grips with.

When he sees Sam come out of the laundry room with a duffel full of presumably clean clothes, John debates a while longer until he makes the decision to end the game and talk to his boy, only to be thwarted when Sam comes back out just long enough to hop a bus before his father even has time to blink.

Fumbling with the keys so that he can pursue wherever Sam is heading, he covertly follows the bus until it lets Sam off in a shopping plaza.

The whole time Sam is in the store, John watches from a clear vantage point at the far end of the parking lot. He sees the steady stream of what is certainly other families getting their children prepared for their first semester and the urge to be with his son is creating an internal conflict of epic proportions inside his head. All he wants to do is head into the store, find his kid, hug the daylights out of him and buy him anything he wants.

But in the end, he doesn't do it.

Because John _is a coward_.

Petrified of being rejected by his boy, knowing that the pain would be too much to bear.

In all truthfulness, John had hoped that Sam would have tried to contact them while he sat cooling his heels in that cabin in Des Moines. That the long term separation from his family would have had his kid seeing things John's way and prompting him to seek refuge back with his father and brother where he belonged and could be safe.

Only thing is, Sam didn't do that.

Because he is most definitely John's son in every way. Blindly forging ahead and embracing every molecule of shared DNA that maps out the faults and poor temperament about himself that John has passed down to him.

Sam will never back away from a challenge. He will never retreat.

He will double down, even when clearly in the wrong, and piss off anyone around him that dares to disagree.

So John could barge into the store, but all it would accomplish is making a public spectacle of them both and get Sam's back up even further. Make the gap between them a little wider, and their eventual reconciliation a little harder.

That's why John doesn't move from the car.

That's why he trails Sam's return bus back to the motel and then spends that night cramped in the economy sized front seat of a sardine tin can of a car, keeping awake on gas station coffee and watching with an eagle eye so that his son can sleep in safety.

Why he settles for ghosting Sam's journey to campus the next day, his boy's tall frame laden down like a pack mule as he strides towards the safety of Stanford's recently warded grounds.

And why John eventually says goodbye to his son from a distance and doesn't try to fight the tears that come as he turns the car east towards Nebraska.

/

Sam wakes up for his first full day on campus groggy and tired not quite ready to face the day head on like he had been hoping originally.

By now he knows well enough that when his emotions are riding high, he's almost certainly going to wake up screaming in a pool of sweat and shaking like a leaf, and that's not exactly how he wants to start off his joint occupancy with Brady.

So instead, he kept himself in a constant state of half wakefulness for the duration of the night and vows that he will find time later in the day to catch a nap before he face plants along one of the campus sidewalks.

Brady is still sleeping the aforementioned promise of _like the dead_ that Sam wasn't confident enough to bank on last night, so Sam quietly gathers his shower supplies and takes off down the hall where he indulges in a scalding hot fifteen minutes of endless water bliss. By the time he returns, Brady is bleary but awake, slowly prowling around his own room and muttering angrily about the need for their own coffee maker.

Sam heartily agrees because it's been ages since he could afford a cup.

There's half a pepperoni pizza left in the mini fridge and they split it for breakfast because there's a mandatory freshman welcome seminar in thirty minutes, and both of them need to head over to the ID Card Office and get their student IDs before they can use the dining hall. Sam had been overjoyed with relief upon receiving an email from the financial aid office informing him that his last disbursement had been authorized and there was a check waiting for him to collect.

On a practical level, he knew it would be there eventually, but it was much more comforting to have verification of the fact when he was desperately counting on the proceeds.

Joined by Zach and Luis, the four of them sit through the seminar, a sea of either overly peppy or equally bleary eyed fellow students surrounding them as the various speakers drone on and on. Still tired and bordering on cranky, his caffeine jones working overtime to remind him that coffee was nearby and back on the menu, Sam prays to every deity he can think of to just let this whole thing wrap up as quickly as possible.

The young men bolt, like the running of the bulls in Pamploma, to be among the first at the ID Card Office, and Sam's military style conditioning and long legs have him edging out the others for first place in line for their group.

He picks up his ID card and waits while the others do the same, teasing each other over which one of them has the better photo and which one looks like the biggest goof. Sam's hair is long, even for him, and it's unanimously agreed that he's inching close into Cousin It territory, and he makes a mental note to price what a trim will cost when he gets his check deposited.

When he takes a closer look at the emblems on his card, he's annoyed to see that he has a mark for the premium dining plan embossed on the front. He groans, because that's his spending money if he doesn't get this fixed immediately. Knowing from his welcome packet that, once he's used it at the dining hall, there's no getting a refund later.

He gripes good naturedly to his wealthy friends and cites the humble plight of the aid dependent student as he leaves them to head over to financial aid office to get things fixed.

It's when he gets to the bursar's window that he's shocked into silence by an unexpected turn of events when he's handed a check for significantly more than what he was expecting.

At first he thinks that it's probably just a mix up in his records that has mistakenly given him the significant upgrade in his dining account, _plus_ the extra funds. He's polite and patient, forcing himself to quell the creeping fear inside his chest, because things sometimes happen and occasionally data gets entered incorrectly.

Not panicking yet, because he's fairly sure that it will all work out in the end if he just keeps calm and doesn't offend anyone with his growing wave of panic bubbling up inside of him that usually leads to a short fuse of temper and diarrhea of the mouth.

There's a steady hum of discussion going on behind the counter as not one, but three other clerks consult among themselves, clucking and leisurely checking their independent monitors to see if they can suss out where the discrepancy is.

Sam's right hand inches up towards his mouth and he barely registers that he's chewing nervously on his pinkie nail, his old habit roaring back with a vengeance, and then feels a sharp clench of misery because Dean isn't around to yank it out and scold him for it.

This goes one for almost ten minutes until a fourth person comes along to see what the whole confusion is about. She glances at the screens briefly, wrinkles her forehead in thought and then smiles. She speaks a few quiet words with the others, picks up the check that Sam had initially rejected as being incorrect and heads back over to his window.

"The check is correct," she tells him politely.

The full amount is his and so is the premium dining plan.

"You father paid for everything in cash two days ago," she says to his stunned face.

And then says it a second time, because he's pretty sure that he's somehow gone hysterically deaf and asks her to repeat it.

Sam is sure that this is all some kind of huge joke, because his father is the guy that kicked him out of the house for even wanting to _be_ here. When she's insistent, he goes so far as to pull an older photo out of his wallet of the three Winchesters and asks her to check again.

She looks at the photo, smiles warmly and nods.

"Such a nice man, you father," she gushes, with the same googly-eyed expression on her face that Sam has seen far too often from others that John has worked his magic upon. The ones who don't know the control freak behind the pretty face.

Sam's too much in shock to move, and the line behind him is getting a little long, so she nicely, _but firmly_ , comes around to the front to put a little more insistence in hastening his departure.

"He is so proud of you, dear," she insists, just short of physically pushing him along. "Tell him hello for me. Have a nice day, Samuel. Next!"

Outside, Sam stumbles a few feet until he finds a bench to flop down on, holding the check in his heads and trying to sort some kind of clarity in his mind to process what has just happened in there. The fat check stares him in the face, its print dark black and bold and definite, and he's remotely aware that he should be breathing the mother of all sighs of relief at the amount because it's the answer to just about every prayer he's had for weeks at this point.

When he manages to gather the first shreds of wits about him, he's overcome with a desperate need to call his father and…

 _What?_

 _Call Dad and say what?_

 _Thank you, Dad. I was so scared and you don't know what this means to me?_

 _Thank you, Dad. Did you change your mind?_

 _Am I forgiven?_

 _Can I come home?_

Or was it a case of…

 _Thanks, Dad. I appreciate the proceeds of whatever scam you ran to get it. Don't worry, I'll keep my promise to stay far away._

Or

 _Thanks, Dad. Got the cash. Now you don't have to feel guilty about tossing me out of the house. Have a nice life._

Then Sam remembered the comment the woman had made about his father paying it in person _two_ days ago.

Dad had been _here_ , in Palo Alto, the day Sam arrived. Tired and lonely, broken and desperately homesick, missing his family like an amputated limb, and his father hadn't bothered to see him.

Sam knew his father well enough to know that if his dad had wanted to see or talk to Sam, he would have found him without even breaking a sweat.

But he hadn't, and it was that painful realization that crushed Sam's battered soul into more dust as the tide of hurt pounded through his ears, making them ring from the rush of raging blood surging inside of him.

Just once, Dad could have shown him a little support, at a time when Sam was insecure and struggling. Wanting desperately to know that he wasn't literally alone in the world.

When just a few words of encouragement from his own father would have been enough to sustain him through the upcoming long and hard journey of finding a way to finish growing up all on his own.

Sam might be eighteen and technically an adult, but he's also still just a teenager who needs to know that his own dad gives a shit about him.

Dad didn't even stick around long enough to do that. He'd come all this way, thrown a little cash in Sam's direction and then, in true John Winchester fashion, took off _again_. Probably for another hunt or another bottle of Jack.

Then, all Sam felt as he sat on that bench, was _fury_.

/

American Airlines Flight 11 crashes into the North Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:46 am EST on Tuesday, September 11th.

In Canaan, Vermont, Rufus Turner is sorting through a mound of correspondence that piled up during his sojourn in Des Moines.

In Blue Earth, Minnesota, Dean is drinking his third strong cup of dark roast coffee in the quiet atmosphere of Pastor Jim's porch. Enjoying a rare moment of calm introspection after days of indulging in his favorite hobbies.

Jim Murphy is in his kitchen, reading an article in the sports section speculating that Michael Jordan was about to come out of retirement and rejoin the NBA.

In Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Bobby Singer is taking inventory of a new shipment of books he picked up from a connection in Boulder over the weekend.

In Lansing, Michigan, Robert Campbell is organizing a team to hunt a Leshii terrorizing a small farming community in Indiana.

In Lincoln, Nebraska, John Winchester is bunking down at Caleb's house, and the two men are deep in research tracking down a possible source for an ancient Kurdish knife thought to be able to kill demons.

Nearby at Harvelle's Roadhouse, Ellen Harvelle is having yet another argument with her daughter Jo about the latter's refusal to return to college and stubborn desire to become a hunter like her father.

In Palo Alto, California, Sam Winchester is getting dressed for his morning run and trying not to wake up his roommate by tripping over his own feet in the dark.

None of them have a clue of what just happened.

/

By the time the South Tower of the World Trader Center collapsed, Dean was already speeding his way across the state line into Wisconsin.

The journey from Blue Earth to New York City would take the average traveler around nineteen hours, give or take road conditions and traffic, and how many times one needed to stop at a rest area or to gas up.

Dean Winchester wasn't the average traveler.

All told, he would spend closer to sixteen, white knuckled at the Impala's wheel. Each report coming in on the radio just inspiring him to hit the gas pedal with a little more enthusiasm. Details were still sketchy at the time, and every new broadcast just seemed to bring more bad news than the ones previous, with no real idea of exactly what the circumstances behind the planes' motivations were.

All he knew was that it was a catastrophic event, with an unknown mass of violent deaths, and the supernatural blow back from a tragedy on that scale would wreak unimaginable havoc on a city already on its knees.

It had started like a regular day at Jim's rectory.

A few days on the road filled with beers, burgers, bars and busty beauties had Dean feeling almost comfortable in his skin again as he sped past Jolly Green the night before. Considering that it was only a two hour drive from Sioux Falls to Blue Earth, the fact that it took Dean almost five days to get there had nothing to do with a sudden inability to navigate a map, and everything to do with unabashed indulgence in some much needed hedonism.

Dad hadn't been particularly pleased to get Dean's call that he was taking off after specifically being told to stay put, and it was only after assurances were made repeatedly that his firstborn wasn't out looking for a solo hunt that the worried father eventually gave his blessing to what he hoped would be some of Dean's personal brand of R&R.

After a few more minutes of John's aggravated posturing and Dean's acceptance of the requisite dressing down for disobeying orders, they had agreed to meet in Blue Earth in a week's time.

John would make his way back to South Dakota after his errands in Palo Alto were completed. He informed Dean that he had a few other stops to make, and then he would exchange the beater for the Sierra before heading to the rectory. Planning on the two of them spending time working on some research he needed done using a few new demonology lore books that Jim had recently acquired as a way of getting Dean's feet wet back in the game.

Liberated and given his father's reluctant seal of approval, Dean had left a trail of empty plates, pissed off pool marks and loved up barmaids in his wake before arriving at Jim's two full days before John was expected.

It had been a while since his last visit to one of the places where he and Sam grew up over the years. Just pulling into the familiar driveway had been enough to trigger a cascade of mental pictures of the two of them engaging in a variety of activities on the church grounds.

Most glaring of all was the memory of the day he realized that Sam was preparing to leave the family.

An event that Dean had absolutely convinced himself that he had derailed, only to now return a failure in that aspect like so many others in his life. He sat in the car for a full five minutes processing the troubling reminder, full low self esteem mode activated, before heading up the stairs to the front door, his gait a little less enthusiastic than it had been in the previous days.

Of course Jim already had the whole story, and in true form he somehow managed to distract Dean with other topics, even as he made his willingness to listen and comfort subtly apparent. Dean had already had enough contemplation on the events surrounding his brother's departure during his near month of silence, and he wasn't up for the sharing and caring with their old family friend just yet, regardless of how pure Jim's intentions.

They made companionable small talk about a few possible jobs before Dean retreated to his usual room, grateful that Jim thought to take out the second bed that would be glaringly empty.

Exhausted from days on the road filled with energized pleasures, and not yet ready to confide in the kindly pastor, Dean went to sleep early and got a good night's rest for the first time in weeks. The familiar surroundings and the peace of the rectory calming his inner turmoil as his mind subconsciously registered a sense of warmth and safety.

Because of how much rest he has gotten the previous night, he's up just before dawn the next day, sitting on the front porch steps of the rectory and warding off the early autumn chill by huddling under a quilt that has been tossed on the back of Jim's couch for as long as Dean can remember. It's quirky repetitive blocks of varying shades of blues and yellows fading through the years and the stuffing getting flatter with each use, but still cozy.

He drinks the first of his several cups of morning coffee as he watches the sunrise on what promises to be a perfect sunny day.

Jim offers breakfast to him around seven, but Dean is quiet and contemplative when he refuses. Recognizing that the young man he is fond of is having a true peaceful moment, the clergyman doesn't press further, retreating back into the kitchen to leisurely eat his own eggs and read the morning paper.

Tuesday mornings are not particularly busy around the rectory, so Jim has time to indulge a little.

His housekeeper putters around him, listening to a morning talk show on the tiny television perched on the counter as she begins preparing the ingredients for the much loved lemon bars that will be served at lunch when Pastor Jim meets with the committee for this year's clothing drive.

Altogether, they are a nearly silent and content household for almost an hour until the first news reports start coming in from New York.

Dean has nearly paranormal gut instincts when it comes to trouble. All he needs to hear is that a plane has crashed into one of the Twin Towers and he's already striding into his guest bedroom to collect his things. Jim doesn't try to stop him, because as far as he knows, Dean's sixth sense has never steered them wrong before and there is such a look of determination and surety on the young man's face that the pastor wouldn't even dream of getting in the way.

He offers only an uncharacteristic embrace and sends Dean on his way with a quick blessing laid on him.

By the time Dean is climbing into the Impala, Jim calls out to him in despair and informs him that a second plane has struck the other tower, confirming his worst fears. Heart in his throat, Dean guns the engine and the Impala streaks like a bullet through the streets of Blue Earth as he tears towards the interstate.

Watching him leave, Jim returns inside the rectory where he will spend the rest of the day alternating between the task of making hundreds of phones calls and on his knees in prayer.

As Dean drives east, his radio is on at high volume and he feverishly scans through the stations hoping to glean updated information. Conflicting stories are broadcast one minute and then corrected the next. Then updated and corrected again. There are too many speculations being made and blatantly wild guesses being thrown around.

It doesn't matter to Dean at the moment exactly what happened. The hunting community's response will be the same regardless.

This will be Dean's first experience in responding to a large scale tragedy. He was living at Sonny's when the Oklahoma City bombing occurred in April of 1995, but many of the hunters that he and his father have worked with over the years were boots on the ground during the aftermath, including Caleb and Travis.

Caleb had later shared with Dean the horror stories of what he saw there, worse than most of the hunts the older boy had been on during his short time in The Life. Part of the large hunter crew that went undercover to carry out the rituals necessary to purify the smoldering remains of such large scale loss.

Dean is flying through Alden, Minnesota when he hears that the Pentagon was hit. There's more craziness and shell shocked reporting coming through that his mind barely processes as he pushes hard through the miles. Wild rumors that make his blood run cold and an overall feeling of mass hysteria on the roads as he sees one car after another pull over to the side.

The drivers wide eyed and intently focused on their car radios and cellphones.

Minutes after the collapse of the South Tower is announced, a further report comes in about a possible downed airliner in western Pennsylvania.

There's immediate speculation about exactly _what_ brought it down, and Dean's interest switches into hyperdrive.

Owing to the immense population, New York City has its own full time hunting community. They are a fairly insular group, preferring to handle the day to day jobs themselves, but they also realize that outside help is occasionally required. Dean remembers his father working one job with them a long time ago, and it didn't have a particularly warm and fuzzy ending, but then again, John gets along with so few people anyway.

Right around the time that he is approaching Madison, after both towers have fallen, Jim calls him and tells him that he's being expected at the emergency base of operations when he arrives in New York.

Lower Manhattan is shut down in every direction, and will most likely remain so for the immediate future. While they are talking, the conversation turns to the plane that crashed south east of Pittsburgh, and since it's relatively on the way, Dean asks Jim if he should head there first instead. Jim says he will get back to him on that.

By this time, John has heard the news and he frantically calls Dean, worry oozing out of every pore from an erratic paternal need to reassure himself that his firstborn is alive and safe. An irrational fear, considering he knows that Dean wasn't anywhere near the tragedy, but scaring him just the same.

Hearing his son's voice answer the phone calms John's frenzied heartbeat and he releases a breath he didn't even know he was holding once he dialed.

John is just east of Lincoln now, currently speeding towards Sioux Falls to grab his truck and his arsenal. He immediately quashes the idea of Dean stopping in Shanksville, simply because the crash site will be flooded with teams of all the alphabet agencies and the Winchesters don't have the immediate resources to infiltrate what is surely a highly volatile situation.

He assures Dean that a more local team from the hunting community will respond there, and John will meet his son in New York as soon as he can. He also unnecessarily orders Dean to be extremely careful until they are reunited, the concern kicked up into stratospheric levels from the shock that they are all feeling, and exacerbated due to his helplessness in not having _both_ of his kids within arms reach at the moment.

John prays that California is spared, because he can't be in two places at once and at the moment his boys are on opposite coasts. At least he knows that his baby is relatively safe on Stanford's warded campus, while his firstborn is heading into the eye of the storm.

Dean plows his way east, stopping only for coffee and the unavoidable piss, dodging traffic and using every trick in his repertoire to avoid getting pulled over. The roads are equal parts chaos and empty as he crosses one state line after the other. He gets several more calls during the trip, finally receiving directions to the hunter's base of operations in the Fulton-Ferry district in Brooklyn.

Because he knows that the faster route to his destination will be impassable, he heads slightly to the south. The highway now taking him into New Jersey, where he will eventually cross through Staten Island to Brooklyn. It's almost one a.m. Eastern Standard as he slugs a path through congested traffic across the Verrazano Narrows bridge.

While he inches his way across the crowded, lengthy suspension, he manages to snatch quick glimpses of the devastation in the distance. He hasn't been there often, because his father despises the place, but he's seen enough to recognize the obscenity of the absence of the towers in the skyline. Replaced now with an illuminated massive cloud of smoke that swirls high into the night sky.

Even late at night, New York City is always vibrant and bright, but Dean looks sadly at the tip of Manhattan Island, because while there are plenty of lit buildings surrounding the area, it's the ones shrouded in darkness that tell the story.

He arrives at the base of operations for the hunting community fifteen minutes later. Swinging the Impala towards the entrance leading to an underground parking facility, he gives his bonafides to the two men standing guard and is allowed to drive into the structure.

Once parked, he's met by another man, shorter than himself and stocky, deep baritone voice and heavy Brooklyn accent. Without wasting time with pleasantries, Dean's instructed to take what he needs and lock up, because the car will be here as long as he's around to work the job.

Dean doesn't particularly like the idea of benching Baby with a bunch of strangers, but desperate times, etc., and he's not really interested in causing flak for Pastor Jim who has vouched for him. He gets with the program, grabs the necessities and heads upstairs where a group of hardened but weary men and women are working feverishly at rows of long tables, assembling the ingredients for the rituals that will be performed over the next couple of days.

There's no telling yet how many have perished today. It doesn't really matter to Dean.

In his opinion, anytime there is even one death, it's one death too many. That's why he does the job he does.

After he's introduced around, another guy leads him over to the makeshift sleeping area, where dozens of cots are either made up or already occupied. The plan is for the group to leave in small batches at first light for the wreckage.

He's also shown to the shower room, where he gratefully strips down after his long journey, gradually easing the aches in his bum leg and shoulder under the hot pulsing jets of water. By the time he is cleaned up, he's more than ready to hit the rack for the next four hours before walking into Hell.

/

It hadn't really taken long for Sam to get settled in at Stanford.

After those first two crazy hectic days, he and the other boys were easily finding their way around. Arranging their class schedules and mapping out all the important common areas that are top of the list of every student's need to know priorities.

Without even hesitating, Sam had pushed for a heavy course load and was dolefully granted permission to make the attempt by his adviser. Taking seriously a warning that he voluntarily pull back if things got to be too hard before his grades started to suffer and affect his ability to continue at the school.

He had already sat through one full day of classes yesterday, beginning at 8 am with his _Intro to International Relations_ section. A walking bundle of nerves, he first stepped into the lecture hall with a rattling feeling of unease and insecure apprehension. His overall sense of not really belonging anywhere at the moment not making his immersion into student life any easier.

But then his analytical and curious brain had kicked into gear, and by the time the lecture was over, his first day jitters seemed a ridiculous thing, leaving him to hoist his backpack on his shoulder with more confidence and a growing measure of excitement for his next class.

Sam had also implemented the start of his running regimen again, quickly finding a popular route in the Campus Drive Loop. An aptly named four mile path surrounding the campus itself that was a relatively flat, easy stretch that he could manage in the pre-dawn darkness when the world was still and quiet.

He would never admit it to anyone, but the early morning runs that his father had drilled into him since puberty actually went a long way in preparing him physically and mentally for the day. The paced and steady movements pumping adrenaline through his body, spiking endorphins and giving him an opportunity to clear his head and focus all the snippets of fears, worries, concerns and trepidation into manageable bite sized chunks.

As his feet hit the pavement in a familiar and measured rhythm, he channels all his pain and stress and rage, the expended energy flowing through his furiously pumping arms and burning in his lungs, giving release in an environment of his choosing.

One that _he_ controlled, where he was his own man, no longer answering to anyone else, and he reveled in the strength he felt building in every tendon. Ever increasing his certainty that he could not only protect himself in a place where he had no one watching his back, but also ensured he no longer had to take orders from anyone.

After a lifetime of being John's son and Dean's little brother, Sam was determined to become his own man.

He runs and works out now because _he_ chooses to do so. No longer under his father's thumb and subject to his mandates and unrealistic expectations. No longer caving to the requests of an overly obedient brother guilt tripping him into doing as he's told.

This morning he runs the Loop with little effort, giving half a thought to mapping out an extended trail for the future because he likes the conditioning but he doesn't feel challenged by a shorter length than he was used to in Sioux Falls. To compensate, when he is finished and approaching his dorm he drops to the ground in the courtyard of Sterling Quad and runs through a full cardio drill, relishing the fact that he has chosen to do it himself, and not because his father has demanded it.

It's _liberating_.

By the time he's finished, he's breathless but happily energized and the adrenaline surge from his workout is buzzing pleasantly through his veins. He's hot and sweaty and feeling really good, ready to hit a long hot shower when he notices that there are an unusually large number of lights on in the dorms.

Considering that it's not even 6:30 yet, and the sky is still an inky blue with just the faintest hints of the coming sunrise, to see that many students already awake and active is immediately disconcerting to him.

There's a thrum of activity inside when he heads back to his dorm. Too many people milling about in the hallway. Doors open and a general sense of anxiety and confusion as a crowd of barely awake students in rumpled sleeping clothes shoot increasingly fearful questions at each other and to the area around them at large.

Zach is rubbing his eyes as he stands in the threshold of his room looking dazed, and behind him Sam can see and hear Luis on the phone apparently talking to his mother and trying to calm her down.

"What's going on?" Sam asks Zach in a hushed tone.

Zach looks at him strangely, his eyes crinkled in apparent disbelief and shaking his head as if attempting to clear it of something interfering with his ability to think.

"We're under attack."

As the minutes pass, a large portion of the dorm's occupants gradually find their way to the lounge where they all lump together in front of the television screen which is streaming a live video feed of the smoking towers. They all watch in nervous apprehension while the screen splits into coverage of the reporters weighing in on the latest reports and speculation.

There's a collective gasp of horror when the South Tower collapses.

Stanford has a wide variety of students, and it's easy to tell which of them are from the East Coast by the heightened state of fear in their eyes. One of the girls that Sam has seen in passing is huddled on the sofa being bookended by friends, her hands shaking as she cries and repeatedly attempts to phone someone, only to get nothing but voicemail.

As time goes on, Sam hears the whispers that the girl's father is an investment banker working on one of the upper floors of the North Tower. He stares at the live feed in dread when it collapses, and the girl right along with it.

Everyone in the room seems to feel a need to reach out and connect with family and friends as the devastation unfolds in front of them. Sam's cell is burning a hole in the front pocket of the hoodie he wore during his morning run and he catches himself reaching for it several times, always pushing back the urge to dial and reassure himself with the sound of his brother's and father's voices.

He knows without being told that Dad and Dean will most likely already be on their way to New York. Neither one of his self sacrificing and pig headed stubborn family members will care that there are certainly a score of other hunters to deal with the aftermath of the tragedy who won't have to cross the country to get there.

Not that he can blame them.

There are already people in New York that Sam cares deeply for, and the urge to go to them, to protect and shelter and comfort them, has every hunter instinct inside of him screaming to be heard and obeyed.

It's only the inescapable fact that US airspace has been closed down that drives home the realization that he is on the other side of the country and unable to fly that keeps him firmly on California soil.

When he's not restraining himself from hitting speed dial one, he's feverishly attempting to reach Alex. Logically, he can't think of any reason why his kind of, sort of, ex girlfriend would be anywhere near the towers, both her classes and her dorm being several blocks north of the site.

It's just the primal need to connect with her that is making him climb the walls at the moment, and the frustration of failing to do so is heightening his discomfort and overall unease.

The news announces the wide disruption in phone service for the greater New York area, so Sam shouldn't be surprised when his calls go unanswered. Still he continues to try a while longer, even going so far as to call his friend Taylor, who after becoming closer friends with Alex after hours spent together around the Winchester's kitchen table, is her roommate at NYU.

Both girls' phones go straight to voicemail.

Eventually, his inability to contact his friends, and his insecurity in wondering if an attempt to reach out to his family will be rebuffed, Sam flees for the sanctuary of the Stanford Memorial Church in the center of the Main Quad of the campus.

There, he joins an already gathered large crowd and falls to his knees in prayer.

It's late afternoon by the time Sam finally leaves the church.

He doesn't even know how so many hours passed by without him realizing it. He had put his phone on vibrate upon entering as a matter of respect. It had buzzed a few times while he sat quietly, trying to makes sense of how the higher power he had always believed in so fervently has allowed this travesty to take place.

When he steps back out into the bright sunlight, he pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through the missed calls and messages. Brady and Zach wondering where he disappeared to, as well as two calls from Pastor Jim.

Nothing from either his father or brother.

He finds himself feeling surprised by that, although he readily admits that he probably shouldn't.

Because he has affection and respect for the family clergyman, he returns Jim's call as he walks back towards his dorm. Jim confirms his suspicions that his family are already on their way to New York to help out.

Sam isn't sure if he's more sad by their lack of contact, or more worried about their safety.

In the end he decides to be angry over their predictably macho desire to throw themselves headfirst into the fray.

All his classes for today were canceled, and tomorrow as well as the student body comes to grips with what has happened. Out here in California, the tragedy seems almost removed from a mental viewpoint, and Sam doesn't like this feeling of helplessness that is permeating through his whole body.

With nothing else to offer, he deviates from his course to the dorm and heads to the campus health center instead where he joins a long line of other students to donate blood.

At dinner time, it suddenly occurs to him that he hasn't eaten all day, and he goes to the dining hall with the other boys to choke down food that tastes like cardboard in their mouths. If not for the blinding headache he's sporting, Sam is pretty sure he wouldn't have even bothered.

Alex finally returns his several frantic phone calls just before 9:00pm Pacific time. The absolute devastation in her voice, normally so strong and stubborn and clear, makes him give real thought about hopping a cross country bus to get to her and hold her close, but she insists that she will be fine, and reminds him that he really can't afford to leave school so early in the semester.

He doesn't like it, but he knows she's right in the end. All told he would have to be gone a week or more, and it's time that he will never be able to make up without being perpetually behind all semester. Right now the professors might be lenient, but Sam can't risk getting off to a bad start when everything he has is riding on his success here.

They talk for more than an hour until Alex is falling asleep and barely able to keep up the conversation. He tells her that he loves her, one of the few times he's expressed it out loud, and she returns the sentiment before saying goodnight, leaving him lying in his bed and worrying about all of his loved ones.

He ignores Brady's surprised stare when he kneels by his bed and prays some more.

/

Dean is woken from a fitful sleep by a raucous voice bellowing around the sleeping area, just shy of six am on September 12th.

He and the other occupants of the cots stir to life fairly quickly, because it's deeply ingrained in all of them to hold themselves in a relatively steady state of alertness anyway. There's a mouth watering smell of coffee wafting through the air, and he stretches his stiff limbs for just a moment before getting to his feet and heading over to a long table set far against the wall that's covered in urns, styrofoam cups, bagels and donuts.

While the hunters collect themselves, there's a brief orientation barked at them. Scores of volunteers of every trade are coming into the city from all over to offer their assistance, and the plan is for the hunters to blend in with them. There's clothing and gear strewn about for them to put on, and Dean has a moment of curiosity as to how the group managed to gather so much in so little time.

As far as anyone will see, they are going in as construction workers and engineers to help with rescue and recovery. It's hoped that the large scale of response will assist them in infiltrating the area without too many questions being asked.

Dean doesn't speak to any of the others. It's not a necessarily chatty group. Bags of the materials for the purification are passed around and hidden in the deep pockets of the heavy gauge coveralls they pull on. He knows the rite. Can recite it from memory, his father's relentless instructions over the years bubbling to the surface like a mental gag reflex.

After choking down some caffeine and carbs, dozens of them pile into a series of cargo vans and work vehicles, navigating their way through the crowded streets heading to the Brooklyn Bridge. Entrance to lower Manhattan is still closed to everything but emergency traffic, but the lead truck of the hunters' convey has the right clearances to allow them all through.

Distance-wise, it's a brief trip, just a couple of miles, but with the extraordinary amount of confusion and chaos in every direction, it's a full thirty minutes before they arrive at their destination.

Dean doesn't get a good view of the wreckage until he's completely outside the cargo van he rode in. He grabs work gloves, safety goggles and a hard hat and then turns around to follow the others.

Nothing prepares him for the unimaginable devastation he sees.

Dean knows first hand how massive the towers had been when they stood tall and proud in the New York skyline.

He remembers with perfect clarity the way he and Sammy had walked with their father towards the downtown area during that fateful trip so many years ago and watched them loom in the distance, growing larger and more impressive with every step they took closer.

The little family had stood in the plaza surrounding the two giants, the boys craning their necks _up up up_ into the air, astonished at the height and the seemingly ethereal way the tops ascended into the clouds.

Dad had been in a rare indulgent mood that day and he herded his boys into the massive lobby of the South Tower with the three story tall arched windows and gleaming balcony stretching around them. A veritable marvel of structural and mechanical engineering.

Sammy had been wide eyed with wonder as he gazed around them and a thrill of excitement flushed his cheeks pink when they boarded the high speed elevator for the quick ascent to the Observation Deck.

Dean wasn't fond of heights. _Still wasn't actually_ , but it's a phobia that he tries hard to keep under wraps.

The elevator ride had been disorienting in the way the crowded car swayed slightly, small puffs of rushing air breezing through the interior and an overall squicky feeling of leaving your stomach on the ground floor, only to have it rapidly catch up to you with the small jump at the end of the journey. All of their ears popping from the rapid change in elevation.

They strolled around the interior of the observation deck, getting an impressive panoramic view of the city spread out beneath them. The shorter and shiny spires of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, a pair of steel and chrome little sisters competing for height. The other high rises dwarfed by comparison and the Hudson and East Rivers snaking their way towards the horizon, separating the island from New Jersey and the other boroughs.

Even the Statue of Liberty off in the distance, that had seemed so imposing when they sailed past it earlier in the day on the Staten Island Ferry, looked ridiculously tiny in scale.

After a while of wondered gazing, Dad had led them over to one of the metal benches built into place near the slim but tall windows.

Dean hadn't really wanted to be that close to the view, his fear of heights sending a dizzy wave of vertigo through him, but Sammy was animated and chatty and incredibly excited. So, for Sammy's sake, Dean reluctantly slid into the seat next to their father while the younger boy stood in rapt attention, leaning precariously on the pane of glass which was the only thing separating his baby brother from certain death.

The first several minutes they sat there, Dean's arms itched to reach out and drag Sam back to a safer distance but he refrained, knowing just how annoyed the kid would become from the overt coddling. Fortunately, Dad must have either suspected something or shared Dean's unease, because it wasn't too long before John snaked a protective arm around his younger son's tiny waist.

Whether it was for Sam's safety, Dean's nerves or Dad's own peace of mind, Dean never knew. All he did know was that the gesture mollified him enough that his heart stopped trying to leap out of his chest in protest. Sam threw his father the mother of all bitch faces and received a warning tap on the behind for his efforts, so he didn't dare squirm out of the hold.

Knowing better than to openly defy his dad when John was willing to allow them some regular fun for a change.

Now Dean stood in shocked silence looking at the veritable mountain of twisted steel in front of him and spreading out far and wide.

It was one thing to have a general concept of the destruction. It was something else completely to see it with your own eyes. He reminds himself that it's not just the two metal behemoths that fell yesterday, but a hotel and an another building almost half the size of the giants as well.

Dean has always been a man of action. Quickly jumping into the fray even when he has no clear clue of what might be on the other side of a door.

To put it mildly, right now he simply doesn't have any idea of how and where to begin such a monumental task.

Fortunately, the decision is made for him.

The group of hunters are paired up and split off into a grid pattern to do their work. It's a risky prospect from a safety viewpoint. The debris underneath their feet is unstable and still burning in places, causing jarring shifts as they gingerly make their ways forward, as well as slowly melting the bottom of their boots to varying degrees. They're also apprised of the large pockets of emptiness hiding beneath the beams they climb on and warned how easy it would be to fall into the void if they're not careful.

Ostensibly, they're all there as part of a rescue effort, but looking at the sheer calamity of it all doesn't promote any real hope of finding survivors. One man _had_ been rescued, just minutes before Dean's arrival on site, and over the course of the morning one more woman will be pulled from the rubble as well, but she will be the last found alive.

That doesn't mean that the legitimate rescue workers are put off their task.

They line up in long lengths of a bucket brigade, meticulously sifted through piles of mingled materials in an attempt to find proof of life. Usually picking their target areas from tiny pieces of debris that clearly came from an office and possibly indicating a section where there might be hidden survivors.

They work by hand because the heavy machinery coming in slowly will cause too much instability and bring even more collapse in an already hostile environment. They use search and rescue dogs to catch the scents and subtle traces of victims that the humans might miss in their paths.

The work is detailed and painstaking, but no one complains or shirks. In fact, everyone is eager to pretzel their bodies into whatever contortions they have to assume to steadily dig and sort.

As the day progresses, Dean watches in humble disbelief and growing admiration as firefighters and officers of the NYPD and Port Authority dig tirelessly through the detritus. Most of the news reports he had heard on the radio as he sped his way east had repeatedly described the bravery and heroism of those men and women in rescue services who hadn't hesitated to sacrifice themselves in their efforts to get others to safety.

There are swarms of these same dedicated professionals going strong on The Pile. Some of them still there from the day before. Exhausted, battered and bleeding, but steadfast in their determination to hopefully find survivors of their brethren or, in worst case, a chance to honor their fallen in the most respectful manner possible.

They work for hours, only stopping occasionally to eat from one of the tents that have popped up to serve the tons of donated food and hot meals that stream in from all over. Not everyone can dig, but it seems that everyone wants to contribute somehow. The workers catch quick naps bundled up on makeshift cots and sleeping bags, wherever there is room away from the site.

They are never away from the work too long.

These professions are well known to often be family affairs, and it's not unusual right now to find a someone giving their all to work the bucket brigade line who had just lost a family member.

A father. Or a brother, maybe.

Dean works harder at the thought.

All told that first day, Dean works with the hunter group for a full ten hours straight before his shoulder starts screaming at him in agony, and as much as it kills him to be so weak, he knows he needs to stop before he tears his collarbone back up and potentially risks permanent damage.

He's held up better than he expected to, in any case. The fine layers of gray powder that cover every surface have started to clog his throat and lungs to the point that it burns to breath right now, even through the protective mask that he started to wear after the first hour of working on The Pile.

Used to the sting of fire and smoke, his eyes are nevertheless red and raw, tearing fairly consistently, and he's finally forced to admit that, at this point, he's more liability than asset.

Seeing first hand the chaos that is lower Manhattan, he understands why he was instructed to leave the Impala safely parked in the underground lot in Brooklyn, and because Jim has vouched for the community members in residence there, he's only slightly uncomfortable at not having his arsenal with him.

He knows that it's madness to think about bringing her into Manhattan, at least for the immediate future, and he's also been assured that there is no good place to park her that's close enough to the apartment he'll be hunkering down in, in Chinatown, to ease his worry over her well being.

The days' events have shaken him, instilling an unwelcome sense of vulnerability, and he feels practically naked without his gun at his back.

Of course he would be welcome to stay in the residence in Brooklyn, but after working side by side with some of the legitimate rescue workers over the course of the day he's chosen to remain in the area and keep working until his father arrives and possibly well after that. It's more convenient to stay in the closer apartment that is within walking distance of the disaster area.

The hunter community leader, Hawkins, sees him struggling and motions him over to where others are covertly preparing for the next round of purification rituals. Dean looks done in, and Hawkins has promised Jim Murphy that he'd keep an eye on the boy because he's been told about the injuries from the last hunt that almost took his young life. Dean's already impressed him with his stamina and determination.

Not that Hawkins expected anything less from John Winchester's kid. He might not particularly like the Winchester patriarch, but no real hunter questions the man's skills and dedication.

"Winchester!" he calls out, his heavy Brooklyn accent loud and harsh over the cascading waterfall of the tankers, the heavy whirring of machinery and continuous sharp bursts of sirens in the background. "Ya done for the day! Pack it up."

Reluctantly, Dean trudges over, another nearly faceless gray figure among a sea of fatigued and filthy responders who are relentlessly digging for all they're worth in the endless expanse of jagged metal beams. Hawkins hands him one of the care bags that has made its way over from the makeshift operations at the Javits Center, where volunteers are feverishly organizing a massive relief effort for the responders and displaced residents whose homes are inside the barricade.

He also pulls a key ring out of his pocket and tosses it to Dean as he shouts out the address.

"Don't come back until you've slept, kid. You look like shit."

Dean's too tired to argue, so he just nods his assent and takes off in the general direction of Chinatown. Lower Manhattan has no public transportation right now, so it's not like he really has a choice but to walk to where he's going. Not that he wouldn't anyway, since it's only a dozen or so blocks before he reaches his destination.

As he walks he can't shake the discomfort of seeing the normally vibrant city so unnaturally _quiet_. There are very few people, relatively speaking, walking the streets as he ambles his way along, and the ones that he does encounter have these vague identical glazed over looks on their faces, like they aren't sure where they are and how they came to be there in the first place.

It's wholly disconcerting to him, because he wants to say something or help them in someway but he isn't quite sure how.

No one speaks. Either to each other or to him.

What is also slowly breaking him is the sea of missing person fliers papered over every surface that he passes. The scope and magnitude of the loss is crushing.

It's a slow progression onward, and there's a hushed silence in the air that's almost reverential in its absence of the steady din of a metropolis.

Somehow similar in his mind to walking in the snow in the woods alone, with the muffled footsteps and the lack of ambient noise. An appropriate pairing to the almost universally neutral palette of his surroundings. The buildings and streets even blocks away still dark and covered in that same gray powdery substance that he's spent the day trying not to breathe in.

It's not until he's further up, nearing the bustle of Canal Street that motion starts to speed up and come back into colorful focus.

He finds the apartment, a third floor walk up over a noodle shop/karaoke bar, fairly effortlessly. Dad doesn't like New York City, and Dad is the one that steers their boat, so it's not as if Dean has spent much time here. But the layout of the city itself is simple enough for a caveman to find his way around. All grids with numbers and letters that don't take a lot of effort to decode.

The apartment isn't much. Just a small studio that has a double bed and pullout couch in the main room. He does understand enough about real estate to wonder exactly how the community affords such a place to have on hand.

Dean's already planning on taking the pullout, since his father will most likely be arriving sometime either late tonight or early tomorrow morning, and will bunk down with him here as long as they stay in the area. There's a tiny galley kitchen that's almost too narrow for him to navigate, and a bathroom with older fixtures that look basic but blessedly clean with some extra towels folded and ready to use on the counter.

He upends the care bag on the couch and inventories the contents. Soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and a small first aid kit. Two bottles of water and moist towelettes. He rips open the first aid kit and is relieved to find a tube of eye drops inside. His own are still tearing up and throbbing and he hopes that he doesn't have any debris hiding in them anywhere.

Deciding to be thorough, he flushes his eyes out anyway before adding the drops, knowing that he will just have to do it again after his shower.

His duffel has already made it there, and he gives thanks to whichever one of the community members took the time to bring his things. He wasn't actually looking forward to walking around the apartment in the buff after washing out today's clothes in the sink and hoping they dry before morning.

He opens the duffel and makes the decision to swallow two of the good meds. He's not necessarily in too much pain at the moment, his personal threshold registering a four on the scale, even though he grudgingly admits that his four is more like a normal person's _eight._ It's more that he doesn't want to be a wuss about his previous injuries, because he's in awe of the work being done at The Pile, and he's not about to let a little discomfort prohibit him from joining in again tomorrow.

The shower is adequate, and he stands under the spray for a good deal longer than he most likely needed to, letting the streams sluice down his body and wash away the streaks of dust that seem to be coating his full expanse of skin in tiny gray rivulets.

Out of the shower, he dons a clean tee and boxers and then sets to work trying to scrub the day's grime from the outerwear he will need for tomorrow. It's not an easy job, and when things are about as good as they are likely to get, his hands are caked in dark crud all the way up to his elbows.

He showers again.

It's probably a sacrilege in the face of such a tragedy, but he's caught his mind straying to obsessively stress about his little brother most of the day. Logically, Dean knows that the kid is thousands of miles away and safe. Nothing has happened anywhere in California, the destruction limiting itself to the East Coast, but it doesn't change the fact that he runs on an autopilot of _Sammy-worry_.

His big brother inner voice has been blaring in his ear from the moment he set foot on site. It's second nature to him to want to hit speed dial one and assure himself that Sammy is safe and sound. He might have even gone through with it at some point during the day if the cell service in the area wasn't still all shot to shit.

Maybe there's a sign in that somehow.

Realistically, he's going to have to settle right now for the assurances that his father gave him during their last phone call when he told Dean that Sam is _fine_. Dad had let slip that he actually saw his little brother a few days ago arriving at his fancy pants school in perfect health, and whoever is keeping tabs on the kid in California confirmed his well being as recently as yesterday morning _after_ the chaos struck.

Out of curiosity, he grabs his cell and checks for bars, laughing humorlessly to himself when he sees that he does have the ability call out, as well as seven voice mail messages left for him over the course of the afternoon. He's not surprised that he hadn't heard the phone ring over the steady din of excavation work that surrounded him.

Checking the Caller ID, he sees calls from _Dad, Pastor Jim, Bobby_ and _Caleb_. Nothing at all from _Sammy_. After all these weeks it shouldn't hurt as much as it does.

Then again, he hadn't called Sam either, so he guesses that they are both guilty of neglect.

He brings up speed dial one, contemplates the ramifications of pressing that button, and then chickens out at the last minute, reasoning with himself that his father is surely keeping on top of the situation, and would contact Dean with any troubling information.

While he wallows in exhaustion and uncertainty, it occurs to him that in his haste to get here and be of help, he's forgotten an important detail about Winchester family connections to New York City.

Filled once more with purpose and duty, and suddenly ravenously hungry, he has a crazy spur of the moment idea, and then dials.

Thirty minutes later he is strolling uptown, making his way up the Bowery as a mirthful smile crosses his face. It's not long before he finds himself standing in front of CBGB and a mixed stream of memories washes over him. It's not a completely fond part of his childhood considering all of the resulting ramifications that came later, but now that enough time has passed he can reminisce without too much sadness.

It had been a fun time after all, until the room started spinning and Dad scared the shit out of everyone there, and later it even brought him to Sonny when his teenage petulance evolved into petty theft.

It's open tonight, but quiet. Like the rest of the city the atmosphere surrounding it is muted and low key. He's not planning on going in, just simply casting a half smirk before continuing his journey. Another few blocks up and over and he's standing in front of Brittany Hall on E. 10th Street.

A pretty but imposing brick structure, tall and slim like so much of the city's architecture, it's one of the residences for NYU freshmen. It's also the current residence of Sammy's girl Alex and their friend Taylor.

Dean may have to accept the fact that his little brother severed the ties between them with lead pipe cruelty, but that doesn't mean that Dean is going to wash away all evidence of the year spent in Sioux Falls. It wasn't just Sam that liked the gaggle of kids that regularly congregated around their kitchen table. Dean had developed an affinity for them all as well.

Taylor is the sweet young girl whose father made sure that Sammy doesn't have a juvenile record because of his little foray into public intoxication, and it goes without saying that Alex became almost like a little sister to Dean during the months that she and his brother were practically inseparable.

After such shock and devastation, Dean's not going to be in the same city with the girls and not check on their well being. It's just who he is.

 _And if Sammy doesn't like it?_ _T_ _oo fucking bad_.

All it took was one phone call to Alex's mother to get her NYU address. Dean is fond of Chris and Grace Logan, as they are also of him, and since Sam wasn't allowed to spend time at their house without a way for Dean to reach him in an emergency, he still has their home number stored in his contact list.

Grace didn't even try to pretend to not be tearfully grateful that someone she knew and trusted was going to check on her little girl in person. Alex is an only child, and the long distance separation was bad enough _before_ the tragedy. Dean promised that he would do his best to cheer them up.

The girls were expecting him, so he has no trouble getting inside. Not that he would have been kept out under any circumstances, but the absence of needing to either break his way or charm his way into the dorm was a nice change of pace from the usual way things went in his life. By the time he makes it up to their room, they already have their door open and are waiting. All distressed postures and red, weepy eyes.

He sighs deeply, his heart heavy for them, as he opens his arms wide and draws them close. They cling to him like a buoy in a rocky storm and he puts every ounce of big brotherly comfort he has inside of him into hugging them tightly against his chest.

The girls introduce him to a couple of the friends they had made in the dorm, and even in a time of great sorrow, the new girls enjoy being the recipients of both his handsome smiles and flirty wit. If nothing else, Dean knows that these kids need a little respite from the tragedy, if only for a few hours.

He insists that they go out for a walk, uptown away from the destruction. Deciding that they need a first hand reminder that the world is still turning and life is going on. With such a good looking escort, the idea immediately pleases them and there's just a few minutes of changing clothes and reapplying makeup before the little group is on their way.

Alex points out _The Strand_ bookstore, and Dean swallows hard and forcibly turns his thoughts away from the little brother that would have happily moved into the place if life had been different.

There's a large crowd gathered in Union Square Park attending a sort of candlelight vigil. Against his better judgment, Dean allows the girls to steer them in that direction. At first, the reverent feeling of collective loss and the coming together of community is a good thing to encounter, but then there are too many groups engaged in painful and sharp and increasingly vocal arguments over the issues surrounding the attack, and it puts Dean on the defense.

Although he understands from a clinical perspective that it's a way for some to deal with their pain and grief, Dean unilaterally decides that it's not yet the time or place for either himself or the girls with him. Emotions are too raw and the conflict is escalating, and he can see a couple of the girls draw in closer to him in fear.

He gently pulls them all away and they continue their walk, leaving the arguments and tension behind them.

He holds out his arms in a very gentleman like fashion, and Alex and Taylor each take one and snuggle close, ignoring the slightly envious looks of the others. Dean isn't looking to give any wrong ideas to young girls he doesn't know. While he's happy to play the flirt in an effort to cheer them up and distract them, it's not why he's here tonight.

Still hungry, he directs them into a little pizzeria near the Flatiron Building and buys them all dinner, ordering an obscene amount of food and insisting that he loves to see a girl with a good appetite. They ask a million questions about him and about Sam, clearly intrigued by the handsome brothers with the unusual home life.

A master of the redirect, he deflects, instead asking about _them_ and how they came to decide on NYU, and they never even realize that he answers nothing to satisfy their curiosity.

They walk further upwards, the Empire State Building looming in the distance, and although they are all thinking it, no one remarks out loud how it is once again the tallest building in the city. They do comment on the overnight appearance of the American flag everywhere. The city seems drenched in them, and there's suddenly a heavy preponderance of patriotism that is uncharacteristic of an urban setting that's usually so international.

The further uptown they go, the more life around them seems to be going on like nothing has happened. It's at once comforting and yet still disconcerting. Almost as if they are transported to a different city that hasn't just experienced an incalculable loss.

By the time they swing over to the area around Penn Station, they have walked several blocks since dinner and they're hungry again, so Dean guides them into Lindy's and orders them all large wedges of the famous cheesecake and fancy coffees. It's not pie, but Dean grudgingly admits that it doesn't suck either.

Sitting next to him, he feels Alex shivering with what he recognizes as remnants of shock and trauma. She won't look him in the eye, but she does slip her fingers into his hand under the table. He discretely allows it and gives her an affectionate squeeze.

She and Sam are not together anymore in the strictest sense, but neither she nor Dean would ever dream about the hand holding being anything other than a sibling-esque gesture of comfort, and he's happy to act as a big brother and offer her solace if she needs it.

Dean escorts them all back to the dorm late in the evening, and as he walks back to his temporary apartment, he comes to the realization that, while he had originally gone to check in on the girls, he had needed the familiarity and companionship just as much as they did.

If not _more_.

Trudging up the three flights of stairs, bone weary and sore, he's more than exhausted when he finally unlocks the apartment door, but even in his tired state he's still alert enough to immediately realize that he's not alone. Swearing under his breath for the lack of his Colt in his waistband, he unsheathes his knife from around his ankle and yells out a warning.

"Hey!"

From the shadows of the dimly lit room, John emerges, looking wrung out and road weary. He strides across the short distance between them and pulls his son in his arms, and they both feel some of the day's tension bleed off as they take comfort in the presence of the other.

Even as they mutually ache for their third.

/

Sam gets a late night phone call from Alex the second day after the tragedy.

Of course he's happy to hear from her, especially considering how wrecked she had been the night before. She's not necessarily her usual bubbly self, but she doesn't seem to be on the constant verge of tears either.

It clears his conscience about not going to her for just a brief second until she explains the reason for the uptick in her demeanor.

Deep down, somehow Sam knew that his brother would do something like this. The same big brother that always seemed to know just what Sam needed during times of emotional crises would, of course, not hesitate to console and care for people that he had grown fond of if given the chance.

A natural born caretaker, Dean is always going to err on the side of placing himself in the role of protector first and foremost.

Alex is grateful and feeling a little better after their evening excursion. Since Sam has not worked up the nerve to share the painful and incredibly personal news that he is estranged from his family with her, she incorrectly assumes that he was the one to ask his brother to check on her and Taylor.

To his shame, he doesn't actually admit to it, but he doesn't correct her either. Too embarrassed to air the family's dirty laundry with the girl who still means so much to him that he often wonders if he should have found a way to study on the East Coast instead.

When they hang up, he stews in his bed and vacillates between being angry with himself for not being the one to take care of her during this trying time, and upset with his brother for inserting himself into an aspect of Sam's life when Dean won't contact _him_.

If he feels hurt and jealous that Dean is slipping easily into the role of big brother for someone other than _Sam_ , he doesn't let himself admit it.

The anger is easier to maintain.

/

John knows that he's never been more proud of his firstborn than he is at the moment.

It's been almost a week since he arrived in New York, and although he knows that Dean is hurting something fierce, his boy is relentless in his desire to put in crushing hours of hard labor at The Pile.

The purification rituals have been done several times over as of today. Of course, with the size and scope of the tragedy, they will need to be repeated frequently as time goes on. At this point, it's not only for the victims, but for the welfare of those that strive to recover them and bring them peace.

Dean has long stopped doing the job with the rest of the hunting community. After days of sneaking around and handling the mystical parts of the operation, the oldest Winchester son is now straight up working recovery and excavating with the rest of the civilians.

The work is hard and tedious, and at times devastating when they find pockets of spaces and make discoveries that no one ever wants to have to make. The smoke has finally died down, but there is a pervasive smell of burned plastic surrounding them that not even the more professional grade air filter masks that they are all wearing these days can protect them from.

John watches with a growing mix of melancholy and approval as Dean easily integrates himself among the ranks of rescue workers. Sharing the burden of the search, exchanging stories and extending camaraderie to people that were strangers just a few days earlier.

He sees his son working side by side among representatives of a dozen different firehouses, and you would never know from a distance that he doesn't belong with them. As John watches, he allows himself a painful moment of regret for a life that his boy was never given the chance to live.

 _I'm going to be a fireman someday, Dad! They're heroes._

Dean may never be a fireman. He may never have a life outside the hunt either.

As more than adequate proof has been shown to them all lately, our tomorrows are not guaranteed.

John's never wanted this life for his kids, he also never lets himself lose sight of what it is costing his family to continue their crusade.

It comes at the loss of childhood dreams that are never realized.

It comes at the expense of one son's love, and the constant risk of another son's life in the line of duty on a hunt.

Even at his young age, Dean has already saved more lives than anyone will ever know.

John may not know much about about a lot of things, but there is one thing he knows absolutely.

His boy is a hero too.


End file.
